Routledge Handbook of Contemporary Timor-Leste 2018054230, 2018054961, 9781315623177, 9781317225225, 9781317225218, 9781317225201, 9781138654563

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
List of illustrations
List of contributors
1 Timor-Leste: historical legacies and contemporary challenges
Politics and governance
2 An unfinished journey: Timor-Leste’s path to democracy
3 Gusmão’s ruling strategy: from peace building to purchase and coercion
4 Shifting ground: flexible alliances and generational change in post-independence politics
5 Lisan, State, Church and community: displacement, syncretism and cohabitation
6 The future of East Timorese nationalism
Economics and development
7 After the oil runs dry: economics and government finances
8 From “special treatment” to a special economic zone: antecedents to ZEESM in the Oecusse-Ambeno enclave
9 Timor-Leste is a rich country, but also a poor one: the effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes
10 On Brexit worries: migration and remittance landscapes in Timor-Leste
Social policies and the terms of inclusion
11 House-life, Oikopolitics, and the failures of social housing in Timor-Leste
12 Towards an integrated and accessible mental healthcare system in Timor-Leste
13 Internal displacement in Timor-Leste
14 Veterans and the politics of citizenship
15 Well-known and little understood: martial arts groups in Timor-Leste
Cultural impacts
16 Culture as symbol: customary marriage practices under transformation in urban Timor-Leste
17 Mane ho feto kompleta malu: gender relations in contemporary Timor-Leste
18 Paths to infinity: ancestorship, origin narratives and differentiation
19 Movimentu Kultura: making Timor-Leste
20 The legacies of the (deep) past and the role of archaeology and cultural heritage in contemporary Timor-Leste
Regional relations
21 Settling Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries
22 Timor-Leste and ASEAN: From enmity to amity, exclusion to semi-inclusion
23 Overseas Chinese, soft power and China’s people-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste
24 Performing and transforming citizenship amongst East Timorese in Indonesian West Timor
Glossary
Index

Citation preview

Routledge Handbook of Contemporary Timor-Leste

Reflecting on the legacies of Timor-Leste’s remarkable journey from colonialism to ­sovereign and democratic Independence, the Routledge Handbook of Contemporary T ­ imor-Leste ­provides a comprehensive and up-to-date reference work on all aspects of life in Timor-Leste. Following an introduction and overview of the country, the Handbook is divided into five parts: • • • • •

Politics and governance Economics and development Social policies and the terms of inclusion Cultural impacts Regional relations

Written by an international team of experts, the Handbook covers the principal concerns that have contributed significantly to the shape and character of contemporary Timor-Leste. It offers a timely and valuable reference guide for students, scholars and policymakers with an interest in International Relations, Southeast Asian Studies and Peace Studies. Andrew McWilliam is a Professor of Anthropology at Western Sydney University, ­Australia. He is a specialist in the anthropology of Eastern Indonesia and Timor-Leste. He is co-author of Property and Social Resilience in Times of Conflict: Land, Custom and Law in East Timor (2012). Michael Leach is a Professor of Politics at Swinburne University of Technology, ­Melbourne, Australia. He has researched and published widely on the politics and history of Timor-Leste and is the author of Nation Building and National Identity in Timor-Leste (Routledge, 2017).

Routledge Handbook of Contemporary Timor-Leste

Edited by Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: McWilliam, Andrew, editor. | Leach, Michael, 1968– editor. Title: Routledge handbook of contemporary Timor-Leste / edited by Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach. Description: Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018054230 (print) | LCCN 2018054961 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315623177 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781317225225 (Adobe Reader) | ISBN 9781317225218 (ePub) | ISBN 9781317225201 (Mobipocket Encrypted) | ISBN 9781138654563 | ISBN 9781138654563 (hardback) | ISBN 9781315623177 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Timor-Leste—Politics and government—2002– | Timor-Leste—Social conditions—21st century. | Timor-Leste— Economic conditions—21st century. Classification: LCC DS649.7 (ebook) | LCC DS649.7 .R68 2019 (print) | DDC 959.8704—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018054230 ISBN: 978-1-138-65456-3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-62317-7 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by codeMantra

Contents

List of illustrations viii List of contributors x 1 Timor-Leste: historical legacies and contemporary challenges 1 Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach Politics and governance 15 2 An unfinished journey: Timor-Leste’s path to democracy 17 Rui Graça Feijó 3 Gusmão’s ruling strategy: from peace building to purchase and coercion 35 Douglas Kammen 4 Shifting ground: flexible alliances and generational change in post-independence politics 46 Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley 5 Lisan, State, Church and community: displacement, syncretism and cohabitation 60 David Hicks 6 The future of East Timorese nationalism 72 Michael Leach

v

Contents

Economics and development 85 7 After the oil runs dry: economics and government finances 87 Charles Scheiner 8 From “special treatment” to a special economic zone: antecedents to ZEESM in the Oecusse-Ambeno enclave 110 Laura S. Meitzner Yoder 9 Timor-Leste is a rich country, but also a poor one: the effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes 124 Joanne Wallis 10 On Brexit worries: migration and remittance landscapes in  Timor-Leste 136 Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro Social policies and the terms of inclusion 147 11 House-life, Oikopolitics, and the failures of social housing in Timor-Leste 149 Gabriel Tusinski 12 Towards an integrated and accessible mental healthcare system in Timor-Leste 162 Susana Barnes, Lisa Palmer, Ritsuko Kakuma and Benjamin Larke 13 Internal displacement in Timor-Leste 174 Pyone Myat Thu 14 Veterans and the politics of citizenship 185 Lia Kent 15 Well-known and little understood: martial arts groups in Timor-Leste 197 Janina Pawelz Cultural impacts 211 16 Culture as symbol: customary marriage practices under transformation in urban Timor-Leste 213 Kelly Silva

vi

Contents

17 Mane ho feto kompleta malu: gender relations in contemporary Timor-Leste 226 Sara Niner 18 Paths to infinity: ancestorship, origin narratives and differentiation 241 Susana de Matos Viegas 19 Movimentu Kultura: making Timor-Leste 256 Leonor Veiga 20 The legacies of the (deep) past and the role of archaeology and cultural heritage in contemporary Timor-Leste 271 Nuno Vasco Oliveira Regional relations 283 21 Settling Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries 285 Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana 22 Timor-Leste and ASEAN: From enmity to amity, exclusion to semi-inclusion 303 Maria Ortuoste 23 Overseas Chinese, soft power and China’s people-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste 314 Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares 24 Performing and transforming citizenship amongst East Timorese in Indonesian West Timor 331 Andrey Damaledo Glossary 345 Index 349

vii

Illustrations

Tables 2.1 Timor-Leste SWOT features 20 2.2 Electoral participation 23 3.1 Timor-Leste budget allocation for the military and veterans’ payments (in ­m illion US$) 40 7.1 Capital costs of the Tasi Mane Project 99 9.1 Summary budget and public transfer amounts, 2009–2017 131 10.1 Fataluku labour migrant characteristics 140 10.2 Fataluku migrant employment in the United Kingdom (54 respondents) 141 10.3 Distribution of remittances (n = 54) 143 16.1 Comparison of marriage stages 217 24.1 Account of NTT and West Timor, 2016 333

Figures 5.1 Photo of Nossa Senhora Peregrina and Cruz Joven 69 7.1 Oil and gas income peaked in 2012 and continues to fall. (EIA 2018, 2018a, ANPM 2018, CBTL 2018, MoF 2018a, 2018b) 88 7.2 Historic and planned withdrawals from the Petroleum Fund. (MoF 2018a) 92 7.3 Timor-Leste’s petroleum revenue flows in 2012 92 7.4 Sources of state budget revenue during 2017: $1,299 million total. (MoF 2018) 93 7.5 Where the Petroleum Fund gets its money. Projections after 2017 are by the Ministry of Finance. (CBTL 2018, ANPM 2018, MoF 2018a, La’o Hamutuk 2018d) 94 7.6 Budget appropriations in 2016 and 2017. (MoF 2016, 2017) 96 7.7 State revenues and spending 2002–2018. (MoF 2015, 2016, 2017, 2017a, 2018a) 97 7.8 Annual budgeted and executed spending. (MoF 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018a, 2018b) 98 7.9 Appropriations for education, health, agriculture and veterans. (MoF 2015, 99 2016, 2017, 2018a)

viii

Illustrations

7.10 Oil and non-oil GDP per capita, current prices. (GDS 2017) 100 7.11 Sectoral contributions to non-oil GDP per capita, current prices. (GDS 2017) 101 7.12 How 700,000 Timor-Leste people aged 15–64 years earn their livelihoods. (MoF 2017, GDS 2015, 2017a, 2018b) 101 7.13 External balance of payments. (CBTL 2017, 2018) 102 18.1 Arapou cau 247 19.1 Madeira Kiss and Don’t Tell 259 19.2 Grinaldo Sana Lulik 260 19.3 Madeira Timor Oan 261 19.4 Maderia 270+, the Santa Cruz Massacre 261 19.5 Madeira Silence at What Price? 262 19.6 Bosco Protection for Women 265 19.7 Neves Untitled 265 19.8 Tony Amaral Santa Cruz Massacre 267 19.9 Cesario Laia fatin atu ba 267 19.10 Madeira First Aid II 268 24.1 Arnaldo Tavares’ campaign poster for the Provincial Parliament from Democratic Party 338

Maps 7.1 Timor-Leste areas currently or formerly under oil and gas exploration contracts. (ANPM 2018a, La’o Hamutuk 2006, 2018e) 95 21.1 Timor-Leste and Timor Sea location map 285 21.2 The enclave of Oecussi 287 21.3 Timor Gap Zone of Cooperation 290 21.4 Joint Petroleum Development Area ( JPDA) 292 21.5 Maritime boundary delimitation in the Timor Sea 295 24.1 East Timorese ethnolinguistic groups in West Timor, 2016 334 24.2 Number and location of East Timorese in West Timor, 2016, by village and region 335

ix

Contributors

I Made Andi Arsana is a Lecturer in the Department of Geodetic Engineering, Universitas Gadjah Mada, Indonesia. He produces maps and charts visualising maritime situations (conflicts and claims) in many parts of the world. His research concerns geospatial aspects of the law of the sea, which includes maritime boundaries and related disputes. Susana Barnes received her doctorate in anthropology from Monash University, ­Australia. Her research interests include customary governance and land tenure, intergenerational w ­ ellbeing and healing, kinship and exchange, colonial and postcolonial history and ­international ­development. She is currently an Adjunct Professor and Sessional Lecturer in Archaeology and Anthropology at the University of Saskatchewan, Canada. Angie Bexley  has been engaged with Timorese politics, youth and generational change since 2002, and has a PhD in anthropology from the Australian National University. With Maj Nygaard Christensen, she edited the volume Fieldwork in Timor-Leste: Understanding Social Change through Practice, published by NIAS Press in 2017. She is currently an Advisor to the Australia Indonesia Partnership for Gender Equality and Women’s Empowerment and a Fellow at the Crawford School for Public Policy at the Australian National University. Andrey Damaledo  holds a PhD in Anthropology (ANU, 2016) with a prize-winning thesis (Anne Bates Prize 2017). His research examines ideas of displacement, belonging and ­citizenship amongst Pro-autonomy East Timorese in West Timor. He is ­currently a Post-­ Doctoral Fellow at the Centre for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS), Kyoto U ­ niversity, ­Japan, researching a new project on commodity networks, transnationalism and p­ eacebuilding ­ oyalties: ­Displacement, amongst Indonesians in Timor-Leste. Andrey is the author of Divided L Belonging and Citizenship among East Timorese in West Timor (ANU Press, 2018). In addition to academic scholarship, he has years of experience in the Indonesian public sector as a senior development planner at the Regional Development ­Planning Agency (BAPPEDA) in Indonesia’s Province of East Nusa Tenggara. Rui Graça Feijó  (DPhil Oxford 1984) is a Researcher at the Centre for Social Studies, University of Coimbra, and Institute for Contemporary History, Nova University of L ­ isboa, x

Contributors

Portugal. His interests include history and theory of democracy and the performance of semi-presidentialism, with a focus on Portugal and Timor-Leste. He has spent extensive periods in Timor-Leste over the past 15 years, having been a UN advisor to the Presidency of the Republic under Xanana Gusmão. He recently authored Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste 1999–2012 (2016) and co-edited with Susana de Matos Viegas Transformations in Independent Timor-Leste: dynamics of social and cultural cohabitations (Routledge, 2017). David Hicks is a life member of Clare College, University of Cambridge, and a P ­ rofessor of Anthropology, Stony Brook University, NY, USA. He holds Doctor of Philosophy ­degrees from the University of Oxford and the University of London, UK. He has ­carried out ­ethnographic research in Timor-Leste since 1966 and has published widely. His most recent monograph is Rhetoric and the Decolonization and Re-Colonization of Timor Leste (Routledge 2015). Ritsuko Kakuma is an Associate Professor in Global Mental Health and C ­ o-Director of the Centre for Global Mental Health at London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine (LSHTM) as well as Programme Director for the Joint MSc in Global Mental Health at LSHTM/King’s College London, UK. She also holds an honorary position at the C ­ entre for Mental Health, Melbourne School of Population and Global Health, University of ­Melbourne, Australia. Her research and development activities are primarily based in low- and middle-income settings and include mental health policy and system strengthening, health system evaluation, mental health workforce development, mental health stigma and discrimination research, health policy analysis, policy and community engagement and health research capacity development. Douglas Kammen is an Associate Professor in the Department of Southeast Asian Studies, National University of Singapore. He has published widely on the politics and history of Timor-Leste and is the author of Three Centuries of Conflict in East Timor (2015). Lia Kent is a Fellow in the School of Regulation and Global Governance at the Australian National University. With a geographic focus on Timor-Leste, she conducts research on peacebuilding, state formation, memory politics and reconciliation. Lia is the author of The Dynamics of Transitional Justice: International Models and Local Realities in East Timor (Routledge 2012) and has published in journals including The International Journal of Transitional Justice, the International Feminist Journal of Politics and Human Rights Quarterly. Her current research project, which is funded by an ARC Discovery Early Career Researcher Award, is entitled After Conflict: Memory Frictions in Timor-Leste and Aceh. Benjamin Larke is currently completing his Master of Clinical Psychology at the University of Sydney, Australia. He also holds a Master in the Anthropology of Conflict, Violence and Conciliation, and has spent over ten years working in Timor-Leste as an advisor to the Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation (CAVR) and with the Ministry of Social Solidarity. His research interests include peacebuilding, reconciliation, cross-cultural conceptions of mental health and indigenous healthcare access. Michael Leach is a Professor of Politics and Chair of the Department of Social Sciences at Swinburne University of Technology, Melbourne, Australia. He has researched and ­published widely on the politics and history Timor-Leste and is the author of Nation Building and National Identity in Timor Leste (Routledge 2017). He is co-founder of the Timor Leste Studies Association (www.tlstudies.org/). xi

Contributors

Andrew McWilliam is a Professor of Anthropology at Western Sydney University, Australia. He is a specialist in the anthropology of Southeast Asia and has continuing ethnographic research interests in Eastern Indonesia and Timor-Leste as well as Northern Australia. He is undertaking collaborative research with Lisa Palmer (University of Melbourne) on an Australian Research Council–funded project entitled, Spirit Ecologies and the Role of Customary Governance in Timor Leste. Publications include co-edited volumes, A New Era? Timor-Leste after the UN (2015) and Land and Life in Timor Leste: Ethnographic essays (2011) as well as a co-authored monograph, Property and Social Resilience in Times of Conflict: Land, Custom and Law in East Timor (2012). Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro  holds an honours degree in International Relations from the Australian National University. She was the 2016 Asia Foundation Development Fellow and Senior Administration Liaison Officer for the Office of the Prime Minister, Timor-Leste and was an Atlantic Fellow in 2018. Her current role is Asia Foundation ­Director for policy and institutional strengthening in Timor-Leste. Sara Niner  is a Researcher and Teaching Associate with the School of Social Sciences at Monash University, Australia. She is an expert in the field of gender and development with a long-term interest in those issues in Timor-Leste and is widely published in this field. As a regional expert, she has often worked on or reported on gender issues in Timor-Leste for local and international development agencies. She has published her research findings in toprated international journals, and her latest book, Women and the politics of gender in Post-Conflict Timor-Leste (2018), has been published through the ASAA Women in Asia Series (Routledge). Maj Nygaard-Christensen  holds a PhD in anthropology and has conducted extensive research on Timorese politics, democratisation and development since 2005. With Angie Bexley, she edited the volume Fieldwork in Timor-Leste: Understanding Social Change through Practice, published by NIAS Press in 2017. She is currently a researcher at the Centre for ­A lcohol and Drug Research, Aarhus University, Denmark. Nuno Vasco Oliveira  is an archaeologist with experience in cultural heritage management, acquired in Portugal, Timor-Leste and Myanmar. After working at the Ministry of Culture, in Portugal, he completed his doctoral studies at the Australian National University, in 2008. He then moved to Timor-Leste, where for eight years he worked as a Cultural Adviser to the Government, providing policy advice and technical assistance in the development of the country’s main cultural institutions. Nuno is currently conducting research and working as an independent consultant in Timor-Leste. Maria Ortuoste is an Associate Professor of Political Science in California State University East Bay, USA. Her research focuses on Southeast Asia and Asia-Pacific security, regional organisations, maritime security, the South China Sea as well as Philippine politics. Prior to graduate studies in Arizona State University, Dr Ortuoste was the Head of the Center for ­International Relations and Strategic Studies of the Foreign Service Institute in the Philippines. Lisa Palmer  is an Associate Professor in the School of Geography at the University of Melbourne, Australia. Since 2004, she has conducted fieldwork in Timor-Leste and has published widely on customary land and resource management practices and their role in nation-building and development. She is the author of Water Politics and Spiritual Ecology: Custom, environmental governance and development (Routledge 2015). xii

Contributors

Janina Pawelz is a Research Fellow at the Institute for Peace Research and Security Policy and an Associate Research Fellow at the GIGA German Institute of Global and Area Studies in Hamburg, Germany. Her research interests are peace and conflict, (youth) violence, radicalisation, gangs and urban violence with a geographical focus on the Caribbean and Southeast Asia. Since 2012, she is the first chairperson of the German East Timor Society (Deutsche Osttimor Gesellschaft – DOTG e.V.). Charles Scheiner  moved from the USA to Dili in 2001 to work with Lao Hamutuk, the Timor-Leste Institute for Development Monitoring and Analysis (www.laohamutuk. org), which advocates for sustainable and equitable development. He has written numerous articles on the impacts of petroleum dependency, the sustainability of state finances and the urgency of economic diversification, presented at many international conferences, and ­reported for several worldwide surveys. Clive Schofield  is a Professor and Head of Research, Global Oceans Institute at the World ­Maritime University, Malmö, Sweden, and is a Visiting Professor, Australian Centre for Ocean Resources and Security (ANCORS), University of Wollongong (UOW), Australia. His research concerns maritime boundaries, related disputes and geotechnical aspects of the law of the sea. Kelly Silva is an Associate Professor in Social Anthropology at the Universidade de Brasília, Brazil. She has been carrying out fieldwork in Timor-Leste since 2002. Her main research interests relate to the transposition, subversion and invention of modernity. She has published widely on politics, kinship and religion in Timor-Leste, including a single-authored monograph, As nações desunidas. Práticas da ONU e a estruturação do Estado em Timor-Leste, published in 2012. Laurentina ‘Mica’ Barreto Soares  is a PhD candidate at the Swinburne University of Technology, Australia. Her research is focused on China-Timor-Leste relations and offers an extended case study of the China-Timor-Leste relationship at both state and non-state levels since independence in 2002. She earned her MSc in International Development from Ohio University, USA, in 2011, and wrote a master’s thesis on a comparative study of Australian and Chinese foreign aid to Timor-Leste’s state-building process. Pyone Myat Thu  is a Research Fellow at the University of Western Australia. With a background in Human Geography and a PhD from the Australian National University (2015), Pyone has undertaken extensive ethnographic research and consultancy work in Timor-Leste since 2004 on various themes concerning land access, forced displacement, rural livelihoods and seasonal labour migration to Australia. She is currently working within a multidisciplinary research team at the University of Western Australia examining the social impacts of agricultural innovations. Gabriel Tusinski is an Assistant Professor of Anthropology in the Humanities, Arts, and Social Sciences Interdisciplinary Cluster at Singapore University of Technology and Design (SUTD). His research develops semiotic approaches to material and visual media to examine the influence of culture on contemporary political trends and transformations in Dili, Timor-Leste. Leonor Veiga  holds a PhD from Leiden University. Her dissertation, entitled The Third Avant-Garde: Contemporary Art from Southeast Asia Recalling Tradition, analyses contemporary art practices from this region that reprocess elements of traditional culture. Her writing on the xiii

Contributors

arts (2010–2018) has mainly focused on Southeast Asian contemporary art. Essays published include “The Third Avant-garde: messages of discontent” (NUS Press, 2017); ­“Movimentu Kultura in Timor-Leste: Maria Madeira’s Agency,” in Cadernos Arte e ­Antropologia vol. 4 – n. 1 (2015) and “Suddenly we arrived: polarities and paradoxes of Indonesian C ­ ontemporary Art”, in Indonesian Eye: Contemporary Art from Indonesia, SKIRA Editore (2011). Her ­curatorial projects (2006–2011) include exhibitions in Indonesia, Mozambique, London, Macao and Lisbon. For more information, please visit at leonorveiga.com. Susana de Matos Viegas holds a PhD from the University of Coimbra and is a tenured research fellow at the Institute for Social Sciences (ICS) at the University of Lisbon, Portugal. Her research interests include personhood, kinship and place, identity, territorial belonging, indigenous transformations and historicity amongst Amerindian peoples of lowland South America and since 2012, amongst the Fataluku-speaking peoples of Timor-Leste. She is an editor (with Rui Feijó) of Transformation in Independent Timor-Leste: Dynamics of Social and Cultural Cohabitations (Routledge, 2017). Joanne Wallis is a Senior Lecturer in the Coral Bell School of Asia Pacific Affairs, College of Asia and the Pacific at the Australian National University. Joanne completed her PhD in 2012 at the University of Cambridge. Her research focuses on peacebuilding and security in the Pacific Islands and Timor-Leste. She is the author or editor of five books, including Constitution making during State building (2014) and Pacific Power? Australia’s Strategy in the Pacific Islands (2017). Laura S. Meitzner Yoder is a Professor of Environmental Studies, John Stott Chair, and a Director of the Human Needs & Global Resources Program, Wheaton College, IL, USA. A political ecologist, her work centres on human–environment interactions, local institutions, and land and forest governance in Southeast Asia. Most of her work has been with smallholder farmers and forest dwellers in situations of conflict, disaster, chronic poverty or political marginalisation.

xiv

1 Timor-Leste Historical legacies and contemporary challenges Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

Introduction The history of Timor-Leste is a compelling story of a people prevailing against the odds. The nation’s harrowing journey from an economically impoverished colonial Portuguese backwater in 1975, followed by a generation-long military occupation by Indonesia, only to emerge as an independent republic at the turn of the twenty-first century, is as remarkable as it is unlikely. Perhaps above all, it stands as a lasting testament to the resilience and desire of a people to be free. Since the dramatic referendum on independence in 1999 followed by the destructive withdrawal of the occupying Indonesian military and the re-establishment of political governance and socio-economic life under the UN Transitional Administration, the people of Timor-Leste have been engaged in the long and difficult journey of post-conflict recovery. The process has not been without its own complex set of challenges, illustrated most vividly in the explosive communal violence accompanying the military-political crisis of 2006, continuing entrenched high levels of youth unemployment and disaffection, and a massive trade imbalance favouring consumer imports over meagre non-oil export industries. At the same time, the first two decades of liberation have also seen renewal with the rebuilding of many essential government services and public infrastructure, the commitment to a strategic vision of prosperity for the nation (Kammen 2009), and the public recognition and financial support for heroes and martyrs of the independence cause. The unlikely nation of Timor-Leste continues to confound its critics who took its early policy missteps and arguably over-ambitious development plans to signal all the hallmarks of a failed state (Cotton 2007). This new Routledge Handbook of Contemporary Timor-Leste offers a fresh set of compelling perspectives on Timor-Leste society as it continues the sustained work of rebuilding and recovery over the first two decades of the twenty-first century. The volume brings together a group of 25 international and domestic scholars presenting their specialist insights on many of the pressing public policy and social issues facing East Timorese society today. The contributors are all seasoned observers of the complex processes of post-conflict and postcolonial recovery that have shaped the character and quality of governance and socio-economic life across the country. They bring to the task their own disciplinary perspectives and research experience with contributions from political science, economics, anthropology, human 1

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

geography, history, art, law, archaeology and strategic studies. In presenting a selection of this scholarship at this time, the collection speaks directly to the central concerns and developments that have defined the post-independence era of Timor-Leste and now frame the directions and terms of engagement for the future. The volume is organised into five complementary themes that bring into focus key challenges and legacy issues that continue to inform decision-making and political debate in contemporary society.

Politics and governance As in many decolonised states, a relatively unified pro-independence front broke into factions in the wake of national liberation and the UN-auspiced introduction of multiparty democracy. Efforts to rebuild unity and establish effective forms of democratic governance have been at the forefront of parliamentary politics in Timor-Leste in the years that have followed. We begin with a brief outline of post-independence political governance. The restoration of independence in 2002 saw the victorious Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente (FRETILIN), founded in 1974, form government from 2002 to 2006. Then in the wake of the 2006 crisis, a major new entrant into post-independence politics emerged, with an alliance of parties replacing the Fretilin government at the 2007 elections. Led by the National Congress of the Timorese Reconstruction (CNRT), and headed by former President Xanana Gusmão, the CNRT Party successfully reprised the historically significant acronym of the National Council of Timorese Resistance, the united front that had led the nation to the 1999 referendum, and become a popular symbol of national unity. The Parliamentary Majority Alliance (Alianca Maioria Parlamentar – AMP) controlling 37 seats governed until 2012 and was re-elected, with some revised junior coalition partners, in 2012. The 2007–2012 era was characterised by fractious divisions within the small political elite, with Fretilin labelling the new government a ‘defacto administration’ as Fretilin remained the largest party in parliament, albeit well short of a majority. The 2007 election had also seen strongly regionalised voting blocs emerge, with the eastern districts backing Fretilin strongly and the west backing the AMP parties; the contrast highlighting wider problems of national unity. This period also saw wider social tensions, with a large number of internally displaced people (IDPs) living in camps in Dili, and the return of UN peacekeepers. Most dramatically, early on 11 February 2008, President Ramos-Horta was shot and gravely wounded by a mem­ ajor Reinado. Shortly ber of a rebel group led by a disaffected former military policeman, M before these events, Reinado and one of his men had been shot and killed by the Presidential Guards of the Timorese army (Forças de Defesa de Timor-Leste). The surviving members of the rebel group involved in these events claimed the episode was part of a ‘negotiation strategy’ gone wrong (Leach 2009). This dramatic incident became a turning point for governance in Timor-Leste, as the new government settled disputes with the main body of disaffected army petitioners and established a pathway for the eventual dissolution of the IDP camps through cash grants for rehousing. The initiatives saw a greater level of security return to urban streets. The profound nature of CNRT’s 2012 election victory saw the new Government Coalition Bloc (Bloku Governu Koligasaun) coalition win control of 40 seats. The victory led to a moderation in political conflict and the emergence of a new ‘consensus politics’, evident in Fretilin’s unprecedented support for budget votes in parliament and the appointment of Fretilin leader Mari Alkatiri as the head of the major project to develop Oecussi as a Special Economic Zone (ZEESM).1 Fretilin also conspicuously dropped the ‘defacto government’ label it had used after the 2007 election, reducing tensions considerably. 2

Timor-Leste

The remarkable trend continued into early 2015 with the formation of a new government, dominated by CNRT ministers but led by Fretilin’s, Rui Araújo as Prime Minister. Though best seen as a power-sharing executive rather than a formal government of national unity, this informal ‘grand coalition’ between Timor-Leste’s two largest parties was described by a senior CNRT minister as a transition from ‘belligerent to consensus democracy’ (Pereira 2014). With Gusmão relinquishing the prime ministership to move to the Ministry of Planning and Development, the new power-sharing executive also seemed to represent an intergenerational shift. Meanwhile, the power-sharing coalition continued the previous government’s development focus on large-scale infrastructure spending, drawing down the country’s oil and gas revenues. It also took a stronger position on national boundaries. The 2017 round of elections beginning on 20 March saw Fretilin’s candidate, Francisco ‘Lú Olo’ ­Guterres (a former guerrilla commander and 24-year veteran of the Falintil military ­resistance) win in the first round with 57%, having received a massive boost with a previously unthinkable endorsement by Xanana Gusmão. Gusmão’s position led many observers to conclude that the era of national unity would likely continue but ironically the 2017 presidential election would prove the final chapter of what had been an unprecedented era of ‘consensus democracy’. In the 22 July election, the two main parties—Fretilin and CNRT—once again took the majority of the vote, with 29.7% and 29.5%, respectively. In a significant twist, ­Fretilin narrowly beat the previously dominant CNRT, resulting in a slim but important lead of 23 seats to CNRT’s 22. Ultimately, Fretilin formed a 30-seat minority coalition with the Democratic Party. On 16 September 2017, with no apparent alternative majority coalition, President Guterres appointed the first minority government in Timor-Leste’s short constitutional history. But events moved rapidly, and a political stand-off emerged on 19 October when three opposition parties—the CNRT, the Partido Libertasaun Popular (PLP) and Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan (KHUNTO), together controlling 35 of parliament’s 65 seats—rejected the government’s programme. ‘Belligerent democracy’ then returned in force over the second half of 2017. In December, the minority government failed to pass a budget rectification measure through parliament. This period also saw the Fretilin parliamentary president delay motions of no confidence and refer a motion for his own removal to the courts. These moves seemed designed to delay the second rejection of the government programme until a time closer to 22 January, the earliest day the president could dissolve Parliament and call early elections. On 25 January 2018, President Guterres duly announced that a new election would take place on 12 May. Following nine months of Fretilin-led minority government, Timor-Leste’s parliamentary elections on May 12 seemed set to deliver stability as a newly formed ‘Alliance for Change and Progress’ (AMP) combining CNRT, PLP and KHUNTO, secured an outright majority of 34 seats. Despite leading a smaller party, Tau Matan Ruak was appointed Prime Minister in June, with the CNRT leader, Gusmão, proposed as Minister of State advising the Prime Minister. The AMP’s clear majority looked set to provide for stability and a muchneeded budget. However, the first experience of genuine ‘cohabitation’ in Timor-Leste’s semi-­presidential system between a Fretilin president and an AMP government would disrupt these early projections, revealing the potential extent of presidential power in Timor-Leste’s semi-­ presidential system and causing problems for the governing coalition. Tensions came to a head in June as President Guterres refused the appointment of 12 of the 41 proposed ministers in the new government, citing corruption investigations. Though Gusmão was not amongst them, the CNRT leader boycotted the swearing in ceremony in protest, accusing 3

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

the President of ‘unprecedented, unusual, seditious and politicized’ behaviour by not swearingin the full suite of government members. For his part, President Guterres stated that he merely asked the Prime Minister to review the names in light of the evidence provided, arguing that such nominations might undermine public faith in the government. Soon after, in another clear sign of cohabitation tensions, the parliament denied the President permission to travel on a scheduled state visit to Portugal. This stand-off over ministers continued at the time of writing and highlights the continuing challenges of creating stable processes of democratic governance in Timor-Leste. Several chapters in this volume reflect directly on these emergent trends in East Timorese politics, on the processes of democratic consolidation, on inter-party and intergenerational tensions within the political elite and on the relationship of modern governance with more established forms of traditional authority. Rui Feijo examines the consolidation of East Timorese democracy since 2002, highlighting its strengths and weaknesses in the historical context of its emergence from two consecutive colonial eras, and the particular challenges of establishing the ‘double transition’ to independence and democracy simultaneously. This chapter analyses the difficult transition from a united front independence movement to a multiparty democracy, following an unprecedented period of UN transitional governance. Feijo commends the relatively open party registration processes, and highly competent electoral administration institutions, but also notes the high level of party volatility, with only two parties that participated in the inaugural 2001 constitutional assembly elections still participating in 2018. Arguing that resistance legacies and personality still dominate a relatively fluid party system, Feijo addresses key challenges in democratic consolidation: the evolving relationship between presidential and prime-ministerial power under the semi-presidential system, the relationship of government with highly legitimate but constitutionally neglected traditional authorities, and the overdue processes of generational transition. Douglas Kammen’s chapter takes a different approach, peering behind formal p­ olitical ­institutions and processes to examine patterns of political mobilisation since 2006. ­A nalysing what he sees as emergent forms of patrimonialism, Kammen examines government ­practices of ‘buying peace’—using windfall oil and gas revenues to patch over entrenched problems in the wake of the crisis. He argues that early successes in this regard became a ‘general ruling strategy’ involving the ‘purchase’ of the electoral loyalty of significant ­actors in East Timorese society, particularly veterans. Whilst this encompassed regular social welfare payments, and the expansion of the civil service, Kammen observes that it also saw special arrangements for the politically powerful veterans, and measures targeted at the emerging middle-class and business elites, most notably state-funded infrastructure contracts for the private sector. For Kammen, subsequent moves against martial arts gangs, disaffected ­veteran groups, the press and foreign judges indicate that this strategy was at times backed by forms of state coercion. In their contribution, Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley address the recurrent issue of an overdue generational transition in power in post-independence Timor-Leste. With effective political power still largely in the hands of the ‘1975 generation’ leadership, and especially those with the particular legitimacy of participation in the military resistance, the authors examine the persistent marginalisation of a younger generation of leaders, many of whom were active in the youth-dominated civilian clandestine resistance to the ­Indonesian occupation. Examining the way an older generation’s hold on power is reinforced by particular development agendas, the authors argue that prevailing conceptions of national identity have limited the scope for emergence of alternative modes of political legitimacy. 4

Timor-Leste

Anthropologist David Hicks presents a broader perspective on processes of governance in his study of the relationships between customary authority (lisan), the Church (Igreja) and the state (estado) experienced in East Timorese local communities. Hicks’ typology categorises these experiences into three modes: displacement, syncretisation or hybridisation, and ‘­cohabitation’. Each refers to the ways that these distinctive interactional modes of traditional authority, modern governance and Church affiliations are negotiated in local communities. Hicks analyses the inter-relationships between these institutions, arguing that each provides distinctive strategic resources for local actors to meet their daily needs, to resolve disputes and to navigate competing claims and interests. Michael Leach’s chapter takes a broader historical view on the new state, examining the evolving character of East Timorese nationalism. Leach’s chapter analyses the distinctive features of East Timorese nationalism, including its rapid transition from a conventional anti-colonialist narrative, mobilised against Portuguese colonialism, to one contesting ­Indonesia’s looming forced integration of the decolonising territory in 1975. The analysis examines the way competing ‘nations of intent’ have ideologically contested the political values and identity of the nation. His chapter then focuses on more recent shifts in ‘official’ East Timorese nationalism, in the way recent government discourses have invoked the arrival of Catholicism as the ‘affirmation of Timorese identity’ (RDTL 2015), and development of a modern nationalist narrative which invokes traditional ‘origin stories’. The unsuccessful government attempts to transform a national identity focussed on the history of the resistance to one mobilised around the goals of national development is another case in point. Finally, Leach speculates on the future of East Timorese nationalism, reflecting on the implications of the demographic ‘youth bulge’ in East Timorese society.

Economics and development Chief amongst the challenges facing the fledgling nation is the question of the economy and the urgent need to repair the financial status of the sovereign Petroleum Fund (Fundo Petrolifero) that currently provides the lion’s share (90%) of the country’s annual budget expenditure. In the absence of any viable or sustainable, alternative sources of export income beyond coffee, the petroleum sector and the sovereign wealth fund remain key to the future of ­Timor-Leste. At least for the immediate future, the economic fortunes of the nation remain highly dependent on its capacity to invest its substantial oil revenues prudently, and gradually move towards a more diversified economy. This scenario, however, is by no means assured, as Charlie Scheiner makes clear in his contributing chapter on the Timor-Leste economy and its fiscal management. Entitled ‘After the Oil Runs Dry’, Scheiner draws on extensive analysis of the government’s own fiscal reporting and data projections to highlight the distorting effects of Timor-Leste’s, near-complete dependency on oil and gas revenues. Excessive drawdown of the country’s multibillion-dollar petroleum fund and the absence of new sources of oil revenue anytime soon risk exhaustion of these funds within a decade. He sees little evidence that the government has used its resource revenues effectively to prepare for a non-oil future. For its part, the government argues that its strategy of ‘front-loaded’ infrastructure projects across the country will drive investment and attract private-sector development and skills training as a basis for a more diversified economic future. The largest of these multibillion-dollar megaprojects are the Tasi Mane petroleum infrastructure project on the South Coast of Timor-Leste and the so-called ZEESM (Special Economic Zone for Social Market Economy) project in the enclave of Oecusse. Both have 5

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

attracted criticism and controversy over their massive scale and the lack of economic justification for their development (for further analysis and critique, see Scheiner this volume, Bovensiepen ed. 2018 and Meitzner Yoder 2015). In the present volume, Laura Meitzner-­ Yoder offers her analysis of the planning and regulatory development process of the ZEESM project in Oecusse. Long critical of the inadequate economic rationale for its scale and vision, Meitzner-Yoder focuses on the growing gaps and shortfalls between the promises and assurances extended to the resident Oecusse population and the reality of an investment process that contributes little to ameliorating endemic levels of poverty, the highest in Timor-Leste. The challenge of managing and investing the substantial resource revenues is also the subject of Joanne Wallis’ chapter that focuses on the expansion of social transfers and targeted pensions to a range of beneficiary groups, and its impact on reducing poverty and inequality. She argues that these public transfer schemes have supplemented the income of certain vulnerable groups (especially the elderly and disabled) and facilitated a successful peacebuilding effort in the aftermath of the 2006–2007 security crisis. But the overtly political basis of some social transfers, particularly the generous payments made to veterans (Veteranus) of the independence struggle, have favoured some groups over others and arguably failed to address chronic levels of poverty, particularly in many areas of rural Timor-Leste where nearly 70% of the population continues to reside. A further pressing contemporary challenge for Timor-Leste is to provide appropriate conditions and opportunities for absorbing the sustained demand for domestic employment. Timor-Leste has a young population (median age 19 years) with some 18,000 high school student entering the job market every year. Agriculture absorbs some of this labour, but large numbers of East Timorese youth are drawn to the towns and cities in search of more lucrative, off-farm work opportunities. Their experience, however, is that jobs are scarce with the results of two recent Enterprise and Skills Surveys showing no growth in employment in Dili between 2016 and 2017 (Curtain 2018). Tertiary training offers one alternative pathway for some students with means, but for a growing number of young Timorese, the opportunity for temporary labour migration overseas has become an increasingly attractive option. In their contribution to the handbook, McWilliam and Monteiro highlight a number of bilateral labour agreements secured between Timor-Leste and regional countries such as South Korea, Malaysia and Australia to provide work opportunities for growing numbers of participants. They also draw attention to the significant growth of informal migration of young East Timorese to Britain travelling on Portuguese passports and working low wage factory and restaurants jobs to generate savings. The labour migration sector is now producing increased non-oil export earnings through cash remittances (US$40 million in 2017) transferred to home communities in Timor-Leste, and suggests at least one expanding pathway for economic diversification, like the experience of many of its neighbours in the Asia Pacific region.

Social policies and the terms of inclusion In the aftermath of occupation and the protracted processes of recovery, one of the many important tasks facing successive governments has been the restoration of essential services across the country. After a slow beginning, the decade from 2007 to 2017 saw significant improvements in the quality of life for all citizens via substantially increased expenditure on public services. Rural communities have benefitted from the rehabilitation and construction of new schools and well-stocked health clinics, as well as major upgrades in telecommunications and the roll-out of the national electricity grid in 2011–2012. Poverty rates are also 6

Timor-Leste

trending down, but even so, Timor-Leste remains a country with relatively high rates of poverty (41.8% in 2014) especially in rural areas where the majority of the population reside. Infant mortality remains high with a 50% stunting rate (World Bank Economic Report 2018) pointing to endemic problems of chronic malnutrition. In this context, there is much scope for enhanced delivery of effective social programmes and formal economic support for rural livelihoods. This section of the handbook presents five chapter-length perspectives on key social issues facing contemporary Timor-Leste. They cover matters as diverse as social housing (Tusinski), mental health needs (Barnes et al.), displacement and access to land (Myat Thu), state recognition of sacrifice and the contribution to independence (Kent) and the politics of martial arts groups, which have regularly been associated with communal violence and instability (Pawelz). Each of these policy domains involves complex legacy issues and political challenges that preclude easy solutions. Gabriel Tusinski points out that the need to rebuild residential housing has been one of the key infrastructure priorities of the post-independence period. In the immediate aftermath of independence, most of the urgent housing needs of families were met by individual family initiatives, using private means with limited United Nations and donor support. But following the destructive crisis of 2006 that created large numbers of IDPs, and with the benefit burgeoning oil revenues, the national government took a more active role in housing policy. Tusinski focuses on the outcomes of two well-intentioned programmes known as the Hamutuk Hari’i Uma (building houses together) implemented in response to the IDP crisis, and in 2011, a Millennium Development Goals Suco Programme initially designed to offer a five-house packages to every village in the country (currently 442). Both projects, he argues, nonetheless failed to achieve their goals, having been derailed through poor planning and a complex politics of housing. For Tusinski, these failures call into question the very capacity of the state to support vulnerable people with appropriate housing, an essential condition of East Timorese perceptions of the ‘good life’ (moris diak). Health services are another sector where governments conventionally play a prominent role. In Timor-Leste, this is a particularly complex field which has attracted significant investment, but given the scale of need across the country there remains considerable work to be done. In their chapter, Susana Barnes, Lisa Palmer, Ritsuko Kakuma and Benjamin Larke focus on mental health services and the results of their collaborative work in this area with Timor-Leste’s Ministry of Health. Whilst government health services have made considerable gains over the past decade, mental health services remain limited despite strong underlying demand given Timor-Leste’s traumatic recent history. Much of this gap continues to be addressed by customary and religious approaches to healing that have long been the mainstay of informal village health services. They typically offer a range of t­ raditional emotional, physical and psychological remedies for diverse afflictions. In their study, Barnes et al. explore the prospects for integrating these practices within modern psychological and clinical approaches to illness and healing. Pyone Myat Thu’s essay addresses the legacy issues of the involuntary displacement and resettlement of East Timorese communities during the Indonesian occupation. As she notes, 20 years later there remain tens of thousands of households living on the land of others, in a state of irregular or unresolved tenure. Given the intense affiliations that communities attach to ancestral lands and resources, the relations between involuntary settlers and longterm residents are frequently fraught with tension. Drawing on two extended case studies, Myat Thu highlights both the layered complexity of these questions of land access, resources and attachment, and the capacity for resilience and accommodation amongst the diverse 7

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

communities of Timor-Leste. The 2017 passage of the much debated and delayed legislation, Special Regime for the Ownership of Immovable Property offers new opportunities and challenges for resolving some of the long-term consequences of displacement across the country. In the process of nation-building, commemorating the struggle for independence inevitably finds a central place in the mythology of the nation. Part of that process involves recognition and memorialisation of those who suffered and sacrificed for the cause of national liberation. In Timor-Leste, a significant element of this process has been the formal recognition and compensation of veterans (veteranus) of the resistance, particularly those engaged in the armed struggle. Lia Kent’s chapter offers a detailed assessment of the valorisation of veterans, placing it in the wider context of citizenship debates and the issue of whose lives are most valued in the national imaginary. As she argues, in a country with a significant percentage of the population living below the poverty line, there is much at stake in claiming veteran status. The status brings with it generous pensions and preferential access to government contracts, and it comes as no surprise that there are currently over 200,000 Timorese registered as veterans and receiving benefits (of USD $2.8 billion in 2013), a figure regarded by commentators as unrealistically high. Whilst acknowledging the important security requirements for placating a potentially restive and disruptive group of war-tested veterans, Kent also shows how the practices and discourses of these government-funded programmes of recognition actively constitute identities and embed them in the fabric of social life. By confirming distinctions between insiders and outsiders, and the social constructions of ‘­h ierarchies of the deserving’, there are long-term ramifications for questions of citizenship and inequality in Timor-Leste. The final chapter in this section is a contribution from Janina Pawelz on the history and contemporary role of martial arts groups (MAGs) and efforts to deal with their largely well-founded reputation for violence and politically motivated disruption of civil society. ­Predominantly a legacy of the Indonesian period (an aspect reflected in their adopted fighting styles and organisational structures), MAGs came to prominence during the crisis of 2006. Their destructive activities and co-option by different political interests resulted in widespread clashes and street violence, especially in Dili. The government’s attempts to control the activities of these groups led to legislation declaring a general ban on their activities in 2013. Based on extensive interviews with key figures in the MAGs, Pawelz offers a nuanced perspective on the activities of these groups, especially their former role in the clandestine resistance and their continuing activities with disaffected young people in Timor-Leste.

Cultural impacts In any consideration of everyday life in contemporary East Timorese society, the role and influence of culture and cultural traditions remains central. Known by a variety of terms such as kultura, lisan and adat, as well as many local language variants, the multiple dimensions of culture and customary practices continue to shape decision-making and people’s ­expectations across varied domains of social life. Activities as diverse as the politics of the state, the enactment of ritual authority and resource governance, questions of land entitlement, marriage exchange and familial obligations, all engage conventions and protocols of custom that derive from the rich mythic traditions and shared Austronesian heritage of Timorese language communities and the legacies of colonial history. These customary concerns have long prevailed in the rural hinterland and mountains of Timor-Leste where local allegiances and traditional authority over community affairs are often more influential than the distant policy dictates of state regulatory agencies, or the cosmopolitan interests 8

Timor-Leste

of urbanites. In the aftermath of independence, numerous researchers have commented on the ‘resurgence of custom’ as part of the extend process of social recovery and the re-­establishment of orderly socio-economic village life (see Barnes 2007, Hicks 2007, Loch 2007). These revivalist processes and practices represented a response to the end of military occupation and the absence of effective processes of state governance in the regions during the early post-occupation years. But they remain an enduring feature of Timorese social life to this day and guide much of the social and political decision-making at local levels. For their part, residents of the fast-developing capital Dili and growing regional town centres are mindful of these ancestral traditions, particular given the strong and continuing connections between rural and urban centres through internal migration and frequent return visits for family celebrations. At the same time, city residents are also fully engaged in the distractions of a fast-emerging urban modernity, resurgent Catholicism and aspirational consumerism. The place of culture in these contexts is vibrant but also transformational as Kelly Silva observes in her contribution on debates around the changing performance of marriage amongst Dili residents. Dili urbanites, she argues, negotiate the values of customary marriage institutions by converting traditional marriage exchanges into symbolic gifts. Such gifts allow people to retain and invest more resources in personal goals than did the extended customary distributions of gifts through familial networks. As ever, the insistent protocols of custom prove themselves flexible and adaptive to the needs of the present. Conventionally in Timor-Leste, marriage and the customary expectations that surround it engage a wide network of familial relations and reciprocal gift exchanges that usually continue over the life of the marriage; and beyond if there are children. Affinal relations between marrying groups in the Tetun lingua franca are known as Fetosawa – Umane (of female and male). In these constellations of kin-based relationships, all Timorese are ­located within complex assemblages of agnatic and affinal relationships sustained through gift-­ giving and mutual obligations, particularly in the celebration of life-cycle transitions such as marriages, births, baptisms and death. In these contexts, gender relations are culturally marked in Timor-Leste and express a range of symbolic and mythic associations. In her contribution, Sara Niner explores some of these enduring dimensions of gender relations and their material impacts on contemporary attitudes and behaviour in Timor-Leste, including entrenched problems of male domestic violence (violencia domestica) and growing demands for gender justice and equality. To the extent that familial networks are guilty of complicity and denial about these issues, they also represent potentially important avenues for influencing behavioural and attitudinal change amongst its morally implicated membership. The importance of family and maintaining connection is highlighted from a different perspective in Susana Viegas’ essay on comparative mortuary rituals in Timor-Leste. Her focus on the elaborate material and symbolic qualities of Fataluku funerals provides insights into their celebration of mythic origins and the differentiation of spirit ancestors. Viegas draws on comparative material from other regions of Timor-Leste to highlight the rich and diverse customary knowledge that sustains funerary traditions and practices that remain vital to the living descendants of the dead. The elaborate Fataluku mortuary posts with their series of stacked buffalo skulls (F: ete arapou cao) provide a striking focus for her meditation on their symbolic and existential properties. Leonor Veiga offers a very different contemporary perspective on cultural forms in her essay on the production of visual arts, paintings and installations by East Timorese ­artists. In what the artists describe as a ‘Cultural Movement’ (Movimento Kultura), Veiga sees a ­diverse set of interpretive art genres that draw heavily on cultural materials for symbolic effect. For Veiga, these represent a creative contribution to the work of nation-building and are examples 9

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

of the performative aspects of citizenship. With its origins in the period of I­ ndonesian occupation and resistance, and with subsequent support from international donors, the Movimentu Kultura provides ‘a critical space where individual and collective concerns are voiced through art’. The final perspective in this suite of chapters on culture, shifts from contemporary artistic expression to a focus on cultural heritage and the challenge of preserving the archaeological and historical record of Timor-Leste. In recent years, collaborative archaeological work in different areas of the country has made significant discoveries, including evidence of occupation on the island 42,000 years ago (O’Connor et al. 2011). This is the earliest date for human occupation in Southeast Asia and the site includes the earliest known example of a shellfish hook, dated to around 20,000 years. In a post-conflict country such as Timor-Leste, there are many competing development priorities, and the need to preserve cultural artefacts and significant historical materials faces stiff competition for government support. In his contribution to the volume, archaeologist and former advisor to the Secretariat of State for Culture, Nuno Oliveira offers a reflection on the work of State cultural institutions and their efforts to build an institutional framework and foundational skills for managing the patrimonial legacy of Timor-Leste. He recognises that a good start has been made and that plans for a National Museum and Library as well as a Museum for Arts and Creative Industries and other initiatives remain high on the government agenda, even as funding constraints have precluded their realisation to date.

Regional relations Timor-Leste’s restoration of independence as a new sovereign state in 2002 established a set of expectations and obligations incumbent upon a new member of the international community of nations. In subsequent years, through its national leadership and fledgling diplomatic corps, Timor-Leste has been signatory to many progressive conventions, beginning with its induction as the 191st member-state of the United Nations in 2002. The nation has also reached out to the multilateral intergovernmental network of Lusophone countries through active support of the organisation Community of Portuguese-Language Countries (CPLP – Communidade dos Países de Lingua Portuguesa). A further important national priority has been a clear delimitation of Timor-Leste’s maritime boundaries between the neighbouring states of both Australia and Indonesia. The 2006 Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea (CMATS) treaty with Australia was later challenged by Timor-Leste over allegations of Australian espionage in 2004, and in 2013 Timor-Leste commenced an action in the Permanent Court of Arbitration to have the Treaty declared void. Aside from sharing the proceeds of undersea resources, the key feature of CMATS was a 50-year moratorium on boundary negotiations. In April 2016, the government of Timor-Leste initiated a compulsory conciliation process over the Timor Sea boundary under the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (­U NCLOS). ­Australia’s opening legal gambit—a jurisdictional claim that the CMATS Treaty had settled the border dispute—was dismissed by the conciliation commission, which found that ­Australia’s obligation to settle the boundary survived the treaty’s purported moratorium (UNCLOS ­Conciliation Commission 2016). Subsequently in 2017, a major ­breakthrough occurred with Timor-Leste and Australia jointly declaring that they had reached an agreement on ‘central aspects’ of a ­m aritime-boundary determination (­Permanent Court of ­A rbitration 2017). Revealed on 6 March 2018, the agreement once ratified will create a ­permanent maritime at the median-line boundary in the Timor Gap. The renegotiated agreement also resulted in a substantial increase in Timor-Leste’s share of the future Greater Sunrise oil field 10

Timor-Leste

revenues to 70% or 80%, pending resolution where the pipeline for downstream processing will land—in reverse order of countries, as 70% refers to Timor-Leste.2 The historic agreement opens the way for new negotiations over the future development of the oil and gas fields in the region. These and related issues around Timor-Leste maritime boundaries are addressed by Clive Schofield and his co-author, I Made Arsana, in this volume. They document the diplomatic efforts made to negotiate international borders and the territorial extent of the nation and the final elements of Timor-Leste’s journey to independence. They also acknowledge the importance of the recent bilateral agreement between Timor-Leste and Australia as marking a significant step in that direction, but caution that the process remains incomplete. Moreover, final agreements around maritime boundaries with neighbouring Indonesia remain unresolved even as efforts continue to find an amicable solution. On a regional front, Timor-Leste’s efforts to become a fully participating member of the regional body ASEAN present another set of opportunities and challenges. In her chapter reflecting on the long-running accession process, Maria Ortuoste argues that this quest for membership has proved to be a circuitous pathway that remains neither assured nor without substantial risks to the political and economic autonomy of Timor-Leste. Still the only country in Southeast Asia that is not yet a participating member, there are strong expectations that the issue of accession will be resolved in the near future. Another set of issues with international reach and political complexity are those related to the different legacies of Timor-Leste’s turbulent past. The first country to forge a bilateral agreement with Timor-Leste following the declaration of independence in 2002 was the People’s Republic of China. China has a long history of trading relations in the region, and the economy of Timor-Leste was for years buttressed by the small Chinese-Timorese community within business interests across the country, and for historical reasons, strong links to Taiwan. The new relationship with the People’s Republic of China has brought with it significant new investment and development benefits, along with an influx of new Chinese labourers. East Timorese scholar Mica Barreto Soares, in her contribution to the volume, charts the increasing influence of China in East Timorese affairs, and some of the growing concerns and tensions that have arisen in its wake. As she notes, the soft power, ‘public ­d iplomacy’ that accompanies investment is one part of China’s global efforts to build alliances and allegiances with multiple client states, and it offers both benefits and risks for the young country. The experience is one shared with many contemporary developing countries in the Asia-Pacific and Africa. External links and interests in Timor-Leste are also addressed in Andrey Damaledo’s study of pro-Autonomy East Timorese groups that fled into Indonesian West Timor in the chaotic period following the popular referendum in 1999. Damaledo’s unique insights into the shifting politics and contemporary livelihoods of these groups highlight how they have gradually reconciled their liminal status as de facto refugees in their own country of citizenship. Many are now well established in different areas of West Timor as they build ­strategic connections whilst pursuing their politico-economic interests in a context of long-term displacement.

Timor-Leste futures A collection of papers focusing on contemporary aspects of Timor-Leste’s society inevitably raises questions about the nation’s future directions, and the various opportunities and challenges prefigured in current trends. The continuing period of political instability and 11

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach

persistent tensions between leadership factions is a contemporary demonstration of these effects. But if the lessons of history tell us anything, it is that we should not underestimate the resolve of the East Timorese people to overcome the destructive legacies of the past, and embrace a more prosperous future. By way of conclusion, we offer a number of provisional reflections on the way forward. The first observation in this regard concerns the consolidation of the democratic semi-presidential regime, which has certainly caused some political tensions, yet proven both resilient and flexible over a series of electoral cycles and periodic crises. The result of the 2018 election demonstrated a maturity of purpose and civic-minded pragmatism evident amongst the voting public, who turned out in high numbers and eschewed smaller parties to cast their votes for a definitive result. Although the formation of new government saw an extended period of stand-off over Ministerial appointments, highlighting the realities of a ‘divided executive’ in a semi-presidential regime, political contestation in Timor-Leste has to date remained firmly within the remit of the constitution. The newly established government also demonstrated some progress towards a much anticipated generational shift from the old guard (geração tuan) to that of a younger generation of political leaders (geração foun) albeit much more gradually than had once been expected. It is now clear that this will be a measured—even elongated—transition where all political players are tested for their capacity and resolve. Longevity in politics in the end favours compromise and an ability to reach negotiated outcomes for mutual benefit has at times been evident, even if East Timorese politics has witnessed regular returns to more ‘belligerent’ forms. In the vital field of economic development policy in Timor-Leste, Charlie Scheiner’s analysis of the fiscal sustainability of the state and the petroleum fund highlights the imminent and very significant challenges facing the nation. The Petroleum Fund continues to provide over 90% of state revenue and remains critical for the delivery of essential services, social transfers and investments in infrastructure and skills training for the burgeoning and youth-dominated East Timorese population. If the ‘front loading’ of expenditure has extended much-needed benefits across the nation, helping to reduce poverty rates and improve living conditions for the population, the currently unsustainable drawdown rates suggest genuine risks that the sovereign wealth fund will be depleted before alternative industries options are developed. Despite this uncertain prognosis, recent developments offer possibilities of a more optimistic outlook. Although a dispute over the destination for ‘downstream’ oil and gas processing divides Timor-Leste and the joint venture commercial partners, the successful conciliation of the Timor Sea border dispute with Australia in early 2018 has paved the way for potentially fast-tracked development of the Greater Sunrise oil and gas field, with Timor-Leste as a major beneficiary. A replenished Petroleum Fund will, if nothing else, provide a critical financial buffer to underwrite moves towards a diversified non-oil economy. In late 2018, Timor-Leste commenced the acquisition of a 56% holding in Greater Sunrise joint venture by buying out the shares of two joint venture partners, Conoco Phillips and Shell. Whilst subject to parliamentary and regulatory approval, this signalled the strong intent of the East Timorese government to forge ahead with its ambitious downstream processing agenda. As this majority stake buyout brings a corresponding financial responsibility for the capital costs of developing field and the Tasi Mane infrastructure, it represented a considerable gamble for Timor-Leste, raising the issue of where loan funds will be sourced and how much of the sovereign wealth fund will be drawn upon. But economic diversification remains the critical challenge facing future East Timorese governments, with the significant growth in international labour migration and cash remittances pointing the way to some alternate economic 12

Timor-Leste

futures for East Timorese youth, along with the growth of the tourism sector. Clearly, much more needs to be achieved in this critical realm of policymaking. Despite the efforts of recent governments to embrace a vision of a more technocratic and highly skilled cosmopolitan society, many of the contributions to this collection highlight the enduring role of Timorese traditions (kultura), which remains a pervasive influence on contemporary society. This is especially so across the mountains and hinterland of the island, but as Kelly Silva points out (this volume), urban elites also remain sensitive and receptive to the expectations and obligations of kin and custom. This suggests that as Timor-Leste builds towards a more prosperous and developed future, the guiding role of customary knowledge and social reciprocity will continue to inform a distinctive and successful East Timorese modernity. The idea of ‘cohabitation’ that David Hicks adopts in his contribution offers an inclusive concept that embraces tradition and modernity, where each needs to be accorded weight and space by government for East Timorese society to flourish and to maintain a distinctive national identity that reflects the multiple sources of its historical emergence as a national community. Finally, we suggest that as Timor-Leste matures into an independent, democratic and well-governed nation, it will also consolidate its position as a responsible and open regional neighbour across a range of multilateral and international associations with shared geopolitical interests. There will undoubtedly be continuing obstacles along the way, but despite the various challenges highlighted in the chapters of this handbook, Timor-Leste’s successful history of determined collective action suggests there is every reason to be optimistic about the future.

Notes 1 Zona Especiais de Economia Social de Mercado de Timor-Leste. 2 The higher-revenue figure would operate if Timor-Leste does not achieve its goal of sending the pipeline to the southern coast of Timor.

References Barnes, S. (2007). ‘Origins, Precedence and Social Order in the Domain of Ina Ama Beli Darlari’, In Land and Life in Timor-Leste: Ethnographic Essays, A.R. McWilliam and E.G. Traube (eds), pp. 23–46, Canberra: ANU Press. Bovensiepen J. (ed.). (2018). The Promise of Prosperity: Visions of the Future in Timor-Leste After Independence, Canberra: ANU Press. Cotton, J. (2007). ‘Timor-Leste and the Discourse of State Failure’, Australian Journal of International Affairs 61(4): 455–470. Curtain R. (2018). ‘Remittances Biggest Export Earner for Timor-Leste after Oil’, Development Policy Centre, Blogpost. file://ad.uws.edu.au/dfshare/HomesCMB$/30047149/My%20Documents/ PAPERS/Fataluku%20Book%20Januar y%202018/Useful%20other%20articles%20recent/ Remittances%20biggest%20export%20earner%20for%20Timor-Leste%20after%20oil%20(1).pdf Hicks, D. (2007). ‘Community and Nation-State in East Timor’, Anthropology Today 23(1): 13–16. Kammen, D. (2009). ‘Fragments of Utopia: Popular Yearnings in East Timor’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 40(2): 385–408. Leach, M. (2009). ‘The 2007 Presidential and Parliamentary Elections in Timor-Leste’, Australian Journal of Politics and History 55(2): 219–232. Loch, A. (2007). Haus, Handy & Halleluia: Psychosoziale Rekonstruktion in Osttimor, Frankfurt am Main: IKO—Verlag für Interkulturelle Kommunikation. Meitzner Yoder, L. (2015). ‘The Development Eraser: Fantastical Schemes, Aspirational Distractions and High Modern Mega-events in the Oecusse Enclave, Timor-Leste’, Journal of Political Ecology 22: 299–321.

13

Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach Pereira, A. (2014). ‘Timor-Leste Transforming Belligerent Democracy into Consensus Democracy’, Tempo Semanal 26 Jan. www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE14/AgioTS24Jan2014en.pdf Permanent Court of Arbitration. (2017). Conciliation between the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste and the Commonwealth of Australia. Press release, 1 Sept. https://pcacases.com/web/sendAttach/2230 RDTL. (2015). ‘500th anniversary of the affirmation of the Timorese identity’, 1 January. Online. Available http://timor-leste.gov.tl/?p=13165&lang=en? (accessed 26 March 2016). UNCLOS Conciliation Commission. (2016). Decision on Australia’s Objections to Competence, 19 Sept. https://pcacases.com/web/sendAttach/1921 World Bank. (2018). Timor-Leste Economic Report – March 2018, http://documents.worldbank.org/ curated/en/889001521523777495/pdf/124434-WP-P165266-PUBLIC-TLERMarchFINAL.pdf (accessed 28 July 2018).

14

Politics and governance

2 AN UNFINISHED JOURNEY Timor-Leste’s path to democracy1 Rui Graça Feijó

Introduction In his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, José Ramos-Horta, the most senior figure in Timor-Leste’s ‘diplomatic front’, announced the Resistance plan to achieve self-determination for the territory, stating that it intended to build ‘a strong democratic state based on the rule of law which must emanate from the will of the people expressed through free and democratic elections’. On the one hand, he was acknowledging the need to address the new template of the post–Cold War world, in which the promotion of democracy had become the zeitgeist, and was therefore a necessary condition to secure the good will, and maybe even the intervention of the international community in the resolution of the then two decades-long conflict with I­ ndonesia. As important as the diplomatic considerations, Ramos-Horta was expressing a significant evolution of the Timorese Resistance: at first, opposition to the Indonesian military invasion was concentrated in the revolutionary front that had won a brief civil war and later ­declared the shortlived unilateral independence (Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste ­Independente – ­FRETILIN) and the parts of the territory it had under its rule, all other major parties (União Democrática Timorense – UDT; and Associação Popular Democrática de Timor) and other relevant i­nstitutions such as the Catholic Church, supporting the integration in 1975. But as time went by, the harsh methods of the Indonesians, the development of urban life and the emergence of new actors like the young student clandestines, the opposition to foreign rule grew in intensity (Anderson 1993). In the mid-1980, Xanana Gusmão had the political wisdom to break away from the ‘avant-garde and sole representative of the Timorese People’ approach of FRETILIN, by then a self-avowed Marxist-Leninist ­organization that had lost control of ‘liberated areas’ and proclaim that the Resistance would henceforth be composed of all strands of Timorese opposed to foreign rule. He also declared its armed branch, the Forças Armadas de Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste (FALINTIL) to be a non-partisan guerrilla group under his own command. Doors were then open for the Resistance to become a pluralist movement – a tendency that led to the creation in 1988 of the Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere and was later crowned with success with the foundation, in 1998, of the Conselho Nacional da Resistencia Timorense (CNRT), composed of the vast majority of the Timorese who fought for self-determination. A pluralist movement, not a usual feature of postcolonial or neocolonial situations, could not avoid being considered a fundamental basis for a democratic solution of the Timorese drama. 17

Rui Graça Feijó

If breaking away from Indonesian authoritarian rule was thought by most at the time of Ramos-Horta speech to be over-optimistic, assuming the will to build a democratic polity appeared as an even more ambitious proposal. Yet, within less than three years ­Timor-Leste had voted overwhelmingly in favour of independence and set on the course to build a ­democratic regime. One and a half decades have elapsed, and for most observers ­Timor-Leste is recognized as a democratic country struggling to improve, consolidate and expand the basic assumptions of this sort of polity. Seventeen years after the proclamation of independence, Timor-Leste possesses a Constitution that has been the bedrock for the rule of law since day one; has witnessed four electoral cycles, both for the presidency and the national parliament (this one had an extraordinary election in 2018) – all considered to be free and fair and to meet international standards of electoral justice and integrity; and the majority of international entities who monitor democracy worldwide cast a benevolent eye on the situation of the country. Polity IV rates Timor-Leste with +7 points in a scale running from −10 to +10, in which +6 and above are considered democracies (and those scoring +10 are ‘full democracies’). As for The Economist Intelligence Unit’s Index of Democracy, it considers countries with scores above 6 to be democracies, those falling in the gap 6–8 to be ‘flawed democracies’ and those above 8 ‘full democracies’; Timor-Leste has consistently been in the group of ‘flawed democracies’. If one considers the context of Southeast Asia, these are good scores. In the case of Polity IV, Timor-Leste is on par with Indonesia and Malaysia – all others falling below the magic line; as for The Economist Index, in 2016 it considered Timor-Leste to be the most democratic of all countries in this region. Freedom House is perhaps the most popular index amongst political scientists – but it also reveals important flaws. For this organization, Timor-Leste struggled to achieve the status of ‘Free Country’ (ratings between 1 and 2.5), and the last publication of results crowns a positive evolution. The comprehensive study of the V-Dem Institute rates Timor-Leste with 0.500 in the ‘Liberal Democracy Index’, on the threshold of democracy. Elsewhere, I have conducted a survey of Timorese democracy using two sets of substantial criteria – one proposed by Alvarez, Cheibub, Limongi and Przeworski (1996), the other being an upgrade of Robert Dahl listing for ‘poliarchies’ (1971) as revised by Philippe Schmitter and Terry Lynn Karl (1991) (see Feijó 2016, 2017). Both exercises concluded that Timor-Leste lives now under a democratic regime, according to standard academic definitions of the term. However, if a basic, dichotomous appreciation of this classification yields a positive result for Timor-Leste, there is no doubt that not only does democracy require further time to consolidate, but it can also improve the level of quality it could exhibit. The journey has been successful, if only with some bumpy patches, but it is yet unfinished. My own assessment of the validity of those exercises is based on a precise notion of democracy that is useful to summarize before we proceed to analyse how Timor-Leste ­obtained such a status. My concept of democracy is historically situated in the early twenty-first century – not one that purports to be a-chronological; it is a modest concept in that it does not aim to cover but the political institutions of a given country. It is also simultaneously minimal – paying tribute to Ockham’s razor – and thick in order to grasp the variety of expressions of the experimentum humanum it is deemed to serve. In brief, it cannot be reduced to a simple mechanism of political agency and must incorporate the complexity of modern life. In this light, I propose to consider as democratic any political system that bases itself on the notion that power resides ultimately with the people (now understood as the widest possible franchise of adults), is periodically subject to confirmation by means of free and fair elections, is limited in the duration of each individual term in office and by the different nature of the 18

An unfinished journey

state functions that must obey the principle of partition of powers, and offers no doubts that a double mechanism of accountability is in operation, both horizontally (by virtue of the limited scope of each power individually considered and the interplay between the whole of the state administration) and vertically (articulating the owners of sovereignty with those who receive a delegation to discharge specific function over a limited period of time and keep in their hands the fundamental power of control). I believe that Timor-Leste conforms with this definition. How did it come to do so?

Assessing the odds of Timor-Leste becoming a democracy The million-dollar question in political science is the one that considers what it takes to bring about a democracy in a given country and to sustain it for a reasonable period of time. Some regularities have been found in comparative studies (like the correlation between ­medium-to-high levels of income and the chances that a democracy survives), but the world is full of exceptions to the various propositions of hard rules. The case of Timor-Leste is one in which democracy was installed by virtue of a combination of the exercise of external conditionalities forged in the wake of the end of the Cold War, and the adhesion to that idea by a sizeable part of the local elite. What remains to be discussed, thus, is not so much the way through which democracy made its presence felt, but rather what explains its survival against enormous odds. I assume that, in Morlino (2011) words, democracy was installed by force of a positive combination of factors and it has survived, and follow the position of Albert O. Hirschman (1963) who criticized the approach that consists of looking endlessly for prerequisites that may turn into a spiral from which one cannot escape before resolving the paradox that, after all, something may exist without optimal conditions being present. However, it is important to assess the odds of Timor-Leste ever becoming a consolidated democracy, by surveying the literature on the inception of democracy. I propose to do this exercise with the help of a method used in the world of business and management better known by its acronym – SWOT analysis (for Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats). This form of analysis helps to review in a systematic way the internal elements of a given situation that have positive (strengths) or negative (weaknesses) influence, and the e­ xternal ones that may constitute opportunities (positive) or threats (negative). Given the shortage of space, I merely present a table with my perspective on the Timorese case (Table 2.1). Had anybody devised such a table at the onset of the process of democratization of ­Timor-Leste, the obvious path to follow would be to sustain the strengths and take advantage of the opportunities, and at the same time combat the weaknesses and lower the intensity of the threats. But it would have been much easier to say than to actually do what it takes to reinforce the odds of democratic survival. Moreover, one would have to consider four critical factors: First, the consolidation of democracy takes time. Rustow (1970) posited that such a process would take no less than a generation, and Schmitter and Santiso (1998) pointed to a period of at least three full legislatures. Second, it implies ownership. It is important to retain that the international community was fairly influential in the advent of Timorese democracy – but its consolidation implies that the Timorese take control and possession of the whole process and that it becomes endogenous rather than driven by externalities. Third, even if the process may have started in critical sectors of the local elite, part of which had been socialized in their long exile in democratic countries, it is imperative that it becomes inclusive of all citizens, and in this instance grassroots democracy is an issue I shall return to further down. Fourth, it depends on the establishment of adequate mechanisms for the ­regular and p­ eriodical control of those who happen to be discharging public functions. 19

Rui Graça Feijó Table 2.1  Timor-Leste SWOT features Strengths

Weaknesses

National unity and identity Plural nationalism Nationalist narrative Democratic-leaning leadership Small size of the country Free Constitution-making Natural resources

Poverty ‘Oil curse’ Embryonic state Colonial legacy Repercussions of authoritarianism Conflict legacy Political extreme polarization Guerrilla fighters without job Charismatic leadership Rudimentary political parties Fragile civil society Ethnolinguistic diversity Sizeable displaced population Financial costs of democracy High rates of illiteracy

Opportunities

Threats

Zeitgeist Democratic ‘linkages’ Democracy promotion International aid International oversight of the process

Democratic recession in the world Regional context Alternative narratives Democratic façade regimes Pockets of permissiveness to   non-democratic solutions International agents Leviathan

Indonesian democratization

­Seventeen years after independence, significant steps have been made in this direction, overcoming several of the weaknesses and threats – but all could not be resolved and the consolidation and qualification of democracy remains on the agenda. Timor-Leste disposed of a number of significant strengths and opportunities to develop a democracy – but the country also suffered from several weaknesses and threats to the survival of its chosen regime. Before moving to the next section, I would like to recall that the east Timorese process of democratization seems to defy an established principle in mainstream political science. Juan J. Linz (1997) famously wrote, ‘No State, no Rechtsstaat, no Democracy’.2 However, the situation of Timor-Leste in the aftermath of the Referendum of 30 August 1999 and the scorched-earth policies of the Indonesian military abetted by local militias was of no state in the classical sense. Many observers described the situation as a tabula rasa ­(Chesterman 2001), terra nullius (Suhrke 2001), ground zero (Nevins 2002), empty shell or black hole ­( Lemay-Hébert 2011). The institutions of a neocolonial state had collapsed with the ­departure of the I­ ndonesians and many Timorese fearing for their past association with their ­administration – and a new state apparatus had to be put in place, a process that is necessarily protracted in time. In this sense, as Tansey (2009) noted, Timor-Leste took a bold decision: to build simultaneously a modern state and a democracy. This is an unprecedented option, which reveals the courage of the Timorese to embark in a novel adventure. Hélas, as Sonja Grimm and Julia Leininger (2012) have stressed, not all good things always go well 20

An unfinished journey

together – and there is a strong possibility that conflicting objectives in the promotion of democracy under a state-building operation may emerge. This observation helps to situate the enormous amounts of difficulties the Timorese faced in their quest for a democratic state.

The UN Kingdom of Timor-Leste and the roadmap to independence After the debacle of the Indonesian rule, the United Nations stepped in to establish a ‘transitional authority’ before independence had grounds upon which it could stand. The S­ ecurity Council passed Resolution 1272 establishing the UN Transitional Authority in East Timor (UNTAET). Not intended to be a long-lasting mission (its mandate was set in terms of six months which had to be regularly renewed), it was vested with powers to enact the ­‘development of local democratic institutions’ and to ‘transfer to those institutions its administrative and public service functions’. However, and rather paradoxically for a mission intent on promoting democracy, the Special Representative of the Secretary General (SRSG), the Brazilian-born diplomat Sérgio Vieira de Mello was awarded the ‘overall responsibility for the administration of East Timor and […] empowered to exercise all legislative and executive authority, including the administration of justice’. Not only was this the broadest mandate a UN mission had ever received (Tansey 2009), leading many to speak of ‘modern protectorates’ (Mayall & Oliveira 2011), the SRSG was compared to a ‘pre-constitutional monarch in a sovereign monarchy’ (Chopra 2002). For many commentators, the situation in Timor between 1999 and 2002 was christened as a ‘benevolent autocracy’ (Chesterman 2004), ‘benevolent despotism’ (Beauvais 2001) or ‘benevolent dictatorship’ (Powell 2008) – all forms of a ‘benign colonialism’ (Kingsbury 2009) intent on promoting democracy. If the stated goal of the mission was to promote state- and democracy-building, the chosen method ran contrary to the very essence of democracy, in that it amalgamated in a single individual the whole range of state powers that are supposed to be separate so that a mechanism of checks and balances regulates the system. The disjunction between the benign goals and the nature of the methods adopted was so significant that Jarat Chopra (2002) wrote about ‘building state failure’. The paradox was not easy to solve. A second and not less critical element of the process was the degree of participation of the East Timorese in the preparation for independence. In the quarter century that elapsed after the Indonesian military invasion, the ‘Timor issue’ was dealt in the United Nations by the Department of Political Affairs (DPA), which was knowledgeable of the details of the actors involved. After the Referendum, internal responsibility in New York was moved to the Department of Peacekeeping Operations (DPKO). In sharp contrast with DPA, DPKO had a slim acquaintance with local details – but, on the other hand, possessed a blueprint for peacekeeping operations: assume the war factions remain on the ground, place UN missions in charge, relegate local actors to ‘advisory’ roles. Timorese by and large – including the main actors of the Resistance – had expected a different attitude. The referendum was organized to high international standards, the ­results left no shadow of a doubt as to the will of its people, and one side of the conflict (the ­Indonesian state and many of those who espoused its views) had vanished from the local scene. Why, under the circumstances, keep resistance leaders and the Timorese in general as mere ­‘advisors’ (in a National Consultative Council set up by Vieira de Mello) to the UN executives? Frustration over the UN behaviour grew strong, and it had an impact on the length of the transitional period. On the one hand, financial considerations determined that UNTAET was not offered a package of a few years (say, five to ten, as many argued would 21

Rui Graça Feijó

be necessary), but rather six months instalments whose renovation had to be continuously negotiated, which prevented the establishment of a realistic time frame for independence. On the other hand, growing frustration felt by the CNRT drove Timorese leaders – in spite of having been offered a larger National Council that nevertheless remained an advisory body – to plea for an acceleration of the transfer of power. In late 2000, Sérgio Vieira de Mello asked the National Council for a roadmap to independence that had to include the drafting of a constitution. Two opposing views were ­expressed during the hearings conducted by a specific committee of the council: one favoured a drafting process based on a consensus-building operation open to all sectors of society through wide participatory exercises, followed by an election for a Constituent Assembly that would put the final touches to the fundamental law, and was espoused by a variety of local actors; the other called for the election of a Constituent Assembly within a few months, preceded by the legalization of political parties, that would be responsible for the drafting and approval of the constitution. This latter view was espoused by FRETILIN – the party that was better structured and hoped to benefit from its solid countrywide organization – and leading members of the UN administration like Peter Galbraith. Sérgio Vieira de Mello presented both options to a CNRT Conference and to a meeting of the UN Security Council, but eventually gave his ear to Galbraith who claimed that The final phase of Political Transition begins with the election of a Constituent ­A ssembly with a mandate to prepare the constitution for an independent Timor-Leste. UNTAET has an obligation to hold free and fair elections that meet the highest i­nternational standards and are open to all political parties and viewpoints. Only in this way can UNTAET be certain that it is turning power over to bona fide representatives of the Timorese people. (ETTA 2001) Actually, only 12% of the world’s constitutions have been drafted according to such procedures (Elkins et al. 2009). Advocates of ‘new constitutionalism’ based on wider popular participation only managed to force the Constituent Assembly to conduct hearings, both before and after the constitution was drafted – but those were no more than façade initiatives that produced no significant result. The Constituent Assembly was elected on 30 August 2001 – two years after the ­Referendum – and by April the country-to-be had its new Constitution approved and was ready to elect the President of the Republic, and to set the date of 20 May 2002 as the ‘restoration of independence’. However, even if the Constitution was voted by more than two-thirds of the elected members of the Assembly, the majority of the parties with seats in the Assembly decided to vote against the final result, thus weakening what one might have ­expected to be an auspicious debut of a new life. Critically, the majority of the Assembly voted in favour of transforming itself into the first legislature of the National Parliament, offering FRETILIN a five-year period in which it would be the dominant party, as it had gained more than half of the seats (not enough to approve its constitutional proposal, as it required a qualified majority, but more than the necessary minimum for the running of a parliament on simple majority). It was a decision taken freely by the Constituent Assembly that was inscribed in its competences, but one which elicited strong criticism from vast sectors of the public opinion. This decision had the effect of freezing political competition for five years and, as a para-constitutional measure, would have negative effects in the stability of the political arena, namely, in the crisis of 2006. 22

An unfinished journey

The new constitution was drafted by elected Timorese with the support of some international experts. It reflected the wishes of the Timorese, but it is also, to a large extent, a construct in line with ‘politically correct’ stances. Above all, the Constitution is a kind of Leviathan that draws a picture of a wonderful country that will emerge sometime in the distant future hanging on an ever-present state capable of delivering milk and honey ­(generous guarantees of social and economic rights). In so doing, it helped create illusions as to the capacities – both in terms of material or financial aspects and in relation to human resources available in the new nation – to fulfil all those dreams in the short to medium term. In a sense, this perspective offers a roadmap to development. But it can also be a source of deep frustration as significant parts of the constitution’s prescriptions remain words and not deeds.

Elections in a young democracy Kofi Annan, the former UN Secretary General who was much involved in the Timor cause, once said, ‘[w]hile democracy must be more than free elections, it is also true that it cannot be less’ (quoted in Bjornlund 2004). Timor has inscribed free and fair elections in its genetic code since it owes the possibility to transform a repressed nation into a sovereign, independent state precisely to the UN-sponsored and supervised Referendum of 30 ­August 1999. Henceforth, all major political decisions (change of president or government) have been done within an electoral framework that operates regularly. It should be stressed that there are several criteria to transform the simple casting of a vote into a free and fair ­election. ­Timor-Leste as the 27th Province of the Republic of Indonesia had had a chance to ­participate in several elections, but João Saldanha (2008) claims that none qualified in the framework of internationally accepted standards for fairness. So there was a learning ­process – and the Timorese seem to have travelled fast along that path. To start with, electoral franchise must be quite ample, verging on universality – and Timor duly accepted universal suffrage. Registration procedures are reasonably accurate, in spite of the difficulties in removing deceased citizens from the rolls, thus artificially increasing the level of abstention. The overall picture emerging from official records reveals a country thirsty for participation. If one accounts for the inflation in registered voters, the actual percentage of those who turn out at the polls has always been in excess of 80% (Table 2.2).3 Table 2.2  E lectoral participation Year

Election

Participation

1999 2001 2002 2007 2007 2012 2012 2017 2017 2018

Referendum Constituent Assembly Presidential Presidential (first round) Legislative Presidential (first round) Legislative Presidential Legislative Legislative

98.93 91.30 86.18 81.69 80.50 78.20 74.78 71.20 76.74 80.98

Source: Feijó, Rui Graça. 2016. Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste, 1999–2012. The Birth of a Democratic Nation. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.

23

Rui Graça Feijó

Second, the electoral administration must be sound and transmit the sense of impartiality to all stakeholders. Benjamin Reilly (2008) has warned us that ‘issues of electoral administration remain under-studied by scholars and under-rated in terms of their effect’, and Robert Pastor claimed that [the] question is whether a countr y’s institutions – both governmental and non-­ governmental – are sturdy and impartial enough to give people confidence that the instances of fraud are the exception […] and can be corrected. The character, competence and composition of Electoral Management Bodies determines whether an election is a source of peaceful change or cause for serious instability [given that the] fair and effective administration of rules is often as important as the rules themselves. (1999: 5–6) The experience of Timor-Leste in setting up electoral administration – first with international aid, then on its own – received international applause mirrored in the fact that ­Timor-Leste was chosen to lead a UN mission in Guinea Bissau to prepare this Lusophone country for elections. Timor-Leste chose a dual administration, creating an executive department under the tutelage of the government – the Secretariado Técnico dos Assuntos Eleitorais (STAE) – and an independent watchdog vested with a substantial array of powers and whose initial ­composition gave citizens assurances as to the neutrality of the administration in the electoral process  – the Comissão Nacional de Eleições (CNE). This choice has been praised as a significant ­contribution to the public perception of elections as being fair. However, in 2016, the Sixth ­Constitutional Government unexpectedly terminated the terms in office of most CNE members and replaced the law by a new one which appears to provoke a ‘governmentalization’ of this independent body casting doubts as to its effective ability to exercise some form of control over STAE. In fact, at a time when Timor-Leste had a ‘Government of National Inclusion’ supported by all parliamentary parties, the government and the parliament could appoint the majority of its new members, reversing the arrow of accountability. This change has been reported in all major international electoral observation teams as a setback that, as far as the 2017 and 2018 elections are concerned, did not seriously affect the results – but it may prejudice future credentials of impartiality and integrity thus far observed. Third, free and fair elections must possess a series of attributes. ‘Elections are meaningful exercises of democratic governance only if voters are able to endow elected officials with real power’ (Schedler 2002). Barriers to entry must be low, coercion absent from the scene, freedom of expression and fair coverage of events assured. They must cumulate ex-ante ­uncertainty, ex-post irreversibility and repeatability (Przeworski et al. 2000). In general terms, all this is present in the Timorese electoral system, and thus one cannot be surprised that international observation teams have repeatedly reported that elections have been organized according to high standards of fairness. Elections have also been consequential, as they have implied the rotation in power of political parties and presidential candidates. As far as presidential elections are concerned, they may require a second round if no candidate polls more than 50%+1 of the votes cast. In 2002, Xanana Gusmão, supported by ­several political parties (but not FRETILIN), easily won the ‘friendly election’ (Smith 2004a) by a margin of 82.69%–17.31% over his competitor, the former president of the ­unilaterally proclaimed independence in 1975, Francisco Xavier do Amaral. This election created a ­precedent in line with constitutional provisions that I shall discuss in the next section: ­presidents tend to be elected if they present themselves as ‘independent’ from political parties. Such condition 24

An unfinished journey

enables them to forge ad hoc coalitions for the purpose of securing that no party has a grip on all major public offices. The second (2007) and third (2012) elections required a second round to return a winner. In the first case, the ‘independent’ José ­Ramos-Horta secured an easy win over FRETILIN’s Lu Olo (69.18%–30.82%), in the second one another independent, this time the former guerrilla commander turned chief of staff of the regular armed forces, Taur Matan Ruak, defeated Lu Olo once more (61.23%–38.77%).4 Only in 2017 did the election return a president on the first round again, and Lu Olo was the first openly party member to secure election, having obtained the support of the two larger parties that were at the time in a power-sharing executive. He scored 57.1% of the popular vote. The novelty of this election requires further comments in a later section, namely, because the legislative elections returned a hung parliament that increases the political capacity of intervention of the President of the Republic, and later on the dissolution of parliament and early elections. The constituent and parliamentary elections were fought under legislation that made it quite easy to register an official political party (the law was changed in 2015 to make those conditions more difficult) and so it will come as no surprise that ballot papers could be nearly one meter long so they could harbour as many as 21 parties or coalitions (2017). But one thing may be the registration of a party, quite another is to ascertain that it has social support. In the Constituent Assembly, 12 parties managed to get at least one seat. But this figure fell to nine in 2007 (when a threshold of 3% was introduced) and to four parties in 2012. In 2017, five parties managed to elect Members of Parliament even though the threshold was pushed up to 4%. In 2018, two parties and two coalitions (of three parties each) secured seats. Another feature arising of the evolution of parliamentary results is the high party volatility – in two senses. From the original 12 parties in the Constituent Assembly, only two (FRETILIN and Democratic Party [Partido Democrático – PD]) survive in today’s parliament. Large ­parties like Xanana’s CNRT came on the scene in 2007, or Tuar Matan Ruak’s Partido Libertasaun Popular (PLP) only in 2017. This suggests that the party system is far from consolidated, and each new election is capable of admitting significant new players, whereas even some historical parties like Associação Social Democrática Timorense or UDT end up vanishing from the scene. Also, the relative strength of the political parties gives rise to a mutating political scenario. In the ‘foundational election’ of 2001 (King 2003), one had a clear single-party dominance (FRETILIN having scored 57.4%, and no other party having reached the 10% mark). By 2007, the configuration had evolved into a polarized multiparty system. FRETILIN lost almost half its vote (to 29%) and CNRT managed to enter the House with 24.1% – both ­polarizing the smaller parties which, by and large, chose to support a post-electoral ­coalition that denied FRETLIN the chance to form a government. The 2012 elections accentuated the effects of the former one, FRETILIN and CNRT being by far the largest parties. However, in a move that took some by surprise, Xanana resigned his premiership midway through the legislature to open up the doors for an informal coalition with FRETILIN, under the aegis of a ‘Government of National Inclusion’ that relied on the support of all parties in parliament. In 2017, the smaller party in the previous parliament lost his seats, and two new parties emerged to oppose the previous government formula, but their score did not alter substantially the scenario of a polarized multi-partism, which was in some way reinforced by the fact that FRETILIN polled just over 1,000 more votes than CNRT. The 2018 special polls returned a victory for a pre-electoral coalition formed by CNRT, PLP and ­K HUNTO (Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan), which scored an absolute majority of seats, with FRETILIN in second with more votes than the previous year, but no more seats. However, FRETILIN secured enough seats to prevent a two-thirds majority without its support, a key feature when the president has veto powers and is aligned with his party. 25

Rui Graça Feijó

The fragility of the party system, and the rotation in the presidency, seems to have one trait in common. As an opinion poll commissioned by Asia Foundation in late 2016 suggests, the role of personalities far outweighs that of political ideology or electoral platforms based on strategic option for public policies. Asked ‘what would you consider the most important driver for you to vote for a particular candidate?’, an amazing 58% responded: ‘role of the candidate in Timor-Leste independence movement’, to only 8% valuing the ‘qualification/ education of the candidate’. Personalities and resistance legacies seem thus to influence more the electorate than do political options regarding strategic public policies. I would suggest that the 2017 elections are a proof that this remains the driving force of Timorese politics which, for this reason, may not be fully analysed in terms of institutional positions occupied by politicians and must take into consideration the fundamental role that katuas (the ‘elders’) still discharge.

The choice of a government system and the role of ‘independent presidents’ The choice of a government system, even for those who do not espouse a hard institutionalist thesis, is a fundamental one for it frames the political arena. It is difficult to ascertain the virtues and pitfalls of any government system outside the context where it exists, as one of its fundamental features must be the adequacy to local history, politics and institutional culture. As I argued elsewhere (Feijó 2014), Timor-Leste crafted its own government system without extensive theoretical knowledge of the choices it had, but rather taking a p­ ragmatic approach that delved in a common legacy with Portugal. Their former colonial power that had emerged from dictatorship into consolidated democracy and ‘exported’ the basic ­features of its regime to other Lusophone countries when they sought to develop democracy in the 1990s (Lobo & Neto 2009). Timor-Leste opted for a system that is not to be found elsewhere in Southeast Asia, in spite of being a popular model in the ‘third wave of democratization’ and now present in about 50 countries, mostly in Europe and Africa (Elgie 2011): semi-presidentialism. A ­ ccording to its most recent standard definition offered by Robert Elgie (2011), this is ‘a system where a popularly elected president exists alongside a prime minister and cabinet that are responsible to the legislature’. As Giovanni Sartori (1997) puts it, [t]he one characteristic that that any semi-presidentialist regime must have […] is a dual structure of authority, a two headed configuration. Thus, any semi-presidential ­Constitution must establish, in some manner, a diarchy between a president who is the head of the state, and a prime minister who heads the government. For Alan Siaroff (2003), the critical feature distinguishing semi-presidentialism from other systems is the combination of parliamentary accountability with the existence of presidential powers. In my view, this proved to be consequential in the success of Timorese democratic consolidation. For one, because the diarchy of powers – that many critics insist in ­considering the Achilles heel of this system by making it prone to conflict between two office holders who are both legitimized through popular vote – is consistent with Timorese long-­ established views of legitimate power. The existence, at community level, of liurai (lit., lord of the land) and lia na’ins (lit., lord of the word), not to mention the recent emergence of Catholic priests endowed with spiritual powers, does seem to corroborate the Timorese propensity to accept a diarchy or even more complex forms of power distribution. We might say 26

An unfinished journey

that the Timorese are acknowledged with the famous distinction made by Augustin Thierry who distinguished between ‘governing’ and ‘ruling’. On another level, one must take into consideration that the constitutional organs of power were very unevenly developed in the real world the moment the country became independent. There is no doubt that the government (in a narrow sense of the prime ­m inister and his cabinet) was the strongest branch of the administration, both in terms of human resources at its disposal and the financial means it controlled. The judicial power was the weakest link of the chain. Parliament, as Shoesmith (2008) clearly showed, lacked the experience and the expertise to discharge its functions and required time to assert its own position within the system. The fact that FRETILIN had a comfortable majority was a factor that did not contribute to the emergence of an active House in controlling government activity. For some observers like Sven Gunnar Simonsen (2006) or Jacqueline Siapno (2006), the way ­F RETILIN chose to run the country in the first legislature verges on an ‘authoritarian temptation’ or a ‘path to authoritarianism’, made all the easier by the fact that the executive was the strongest and better endowed (in human and financial resources), of all institutions. By default, the presidency – the only individual role rather than collective organ of sovereignty – could, with scarce resources, raise to perform horizontal accountability, namely, because it brought with it high levels of popularity which allowed for the formation of some conventions that complemented the word of the Constitution. It could run the risk of antagonizing the government, as some argued it did at times, and thus drive the country towards confrontation between President of the Republic and the prime minister. On the whole, this happened only sporadically – even if in 2006 the crisis was severe and in 2015–2016 the president had to give up his decision to challenge the prime minister by vetoing the budget and later refusing the names put forward by the government for the military command. What prevented more serious confrontation than the performance of horizontal accountability in the terms of the constitution? I believe the answer lay in the model of ‘independent presidents’ that successive elections have returned (until the last one changed the scenario). Let us recall that the Timorese party system was extremely immature in 2001–2002, the date when the first elections were organized. Important figures of the Resistance, such as Xanana Gusmão or José Ramos-Horta, refused to create or join any of the many parties that surfaced at the time. In brief, parties did not possess the monopoly of political and civic representation that is associated with them in mature democracies. Room was thus open for personalities not affiliated to any party to fight for office. Their advantage was that they were in a favourable position to put together informal coalitions that could be formed for the presidential election, guaranteeing that no party had the monopoly of all organs of sovereignty. The French political scientist Maurice Duverger, years before the Timorese case developed, made two important comments. First, that it is not necessary for party ­s ystems to develop around figures who are presidential candidates (as in most presidentialist ­s ystems). The system can otherwise be organized around figures who aspire to the p­ remiership, the locus of executive power, like most parliamentary systems (Duverger 1996). This is the case of Portugal ( Jalali 2011), which was also adopted in Timor-Leste. ­S econd, Duverger claimed that under this system three situations might occur: the president ­being the leader of the parliamentary majority; the president being the leader of the parliamentary minority (known as ‘cohabitation’) and a ‘president without majority’ – which seems to be the case in Timor-Leste. Thus, the election of ‘independent presidents’ fits the model quite well. 27

Rui Graça Feijó

The advantage of having presidents above the political fray of parliamentary dialectics, so to speak, is to enhance his status as a symbol of national unity – a much-needed requirement in the early days of Timorese independence – and to have a free hand to deal with all organs of sovereignty and public institutions (such as the armed forces) in such a way as circumstances required. Jean Blondel has recently stressed the symbolic importance of presidents in emerging democracies (2015). Presidents would also be able to dialogue both with the executive and the opposition (in and out of parliament) and to entertain close relations with the civil society and private institutions (such as the Catholic Church and other denominations). The terms in office of both Xanana and Ramos-Horta provided countless examples of their willingness not to be caught in the confrontation between the executive and its opposition, and to carve for themselves a moderating role (as advocated by the Swiss political philosopher Benjamin Constant in the early nineteenth century). By performing this way, they were able to open the doors of the common house of democracy to all strands of opinion, regardless of their electoral weight, and cement a sentiment of common belonging. In a situation that ­A nthony L. Smith (2004b) characterized as ‘Strong Government, Weak State’, the role of presidents as independent moderators of political life offered a modicum of equilibrium of powers and brought real accountability into the workings of the state. This is no mean achievement.

Grassroots democracy: much ado about very little As we have seen above, the collapse of the Indonesian neocolonial administration was ­regarded by many as leaving Timor-Leste in the status of an empty shell where no authority was discernible. Moreover, the brutality of the occupation by a foreign power had led many, amongst whom the Roman Catholic Bishop Ximenes Belo (a co-laureate with the Nobel Peace Prize), to claim that Timor-Leste had suffered a ‘cultural genocide’, and thus its own stamina as a people was under severe stress and at risk of collapse. Grounded on these assumptions, and considering that nature – and society – abhors a vacuum, licence was sought, namely, by foreign cooperation personnel, to engage in the construction of a brand new nation’s institutions from scratch, as if a clean sheet existed where the future could be written without worries of past miasmas (Viegas & Feijó 2017). Local governance would become the field par excellence for approaches based on these principles. The World Bank together with UNTAET devised a scheme to create a fresh local governance unit labelled the Community Empowerment and Local Governance ­Program. The aim of the project was to ‘strengthen local level social capital and build institutions that reduce poverty and support inclusive forms of growth’ with ‘an intent to f­ormalize it at a later stage as the local administration’ (Hohe 2004). The selection of people to ­d ischarge those functions was made in accordance with UNTAET Regulation 2000/13. Two ­c ritical aspects of this regulation for the electoral process need to be underlined: there ought to be gender parity in the new bodies, and no ‘traditional or local ­leaders’ were ­eligible. Not only does this reveal the ‘social engineering aspirations’ of the i­nternational community (McWilliam 2008), it betrays a fundamental prejudice: it implicitly ­acknowledges that Timor was full of ‘traditional’ forms of legitimation that sustained a wide ­network of ‘local leaders’. Much of the recent social sciences literature takes an opposite view of the main feature of Timorese society after the referendum: it stresses the revival of tradition. Amongst many analysts that could be quoted, Susana Barnes (2017), for instance, speaks of the ‘re-­a ssertion of sacralised authority’, whereas Andrew McWilliam (2008) mentions the renewal of hitherto repressed forms of sociality and political legitimacy and the endurance of customary 28

An unfinished journey

governance structures understood as ‘the diversity of historically situated cultural p­ ractices and conventions that have evolved over generations and which offer locally legitimate approaches’. The main issue raised by the persistence or renewal of resilient forms of political culture is that, as noted by Joanne Wallis (2013), ‘[w]hile they are not necessarily democratic, local institutions can be highly legitimate’. The reason why these structures can be understood as not democratic resides in the underlying assumptions regarding aristocratic lineage rights, gender exclusion, age discrimination and other features of local kultura. But if democracy is a political system destined to empower real people, then it must find ways of accommodating features of political culture with which real people actually feel comfortable. This is a paradox requiring good skills to disentangle. The World Bank/UNTAET approach was labelled by Tanja Hohe (2004) as ‘the clash of paradigms’ – and it failed to gain traction. It was altogether abandoned by the novel authorities of independent Timor-Leste. However, the constitution has a number of sections devoted to the need to develop local power. Right in its Part One on the ‘Fundamental Principles’, Section 5 is devoted to ‘decentralization’. The constitutional mandate is far more complex and leaves no doubts as to the preference for a decentralized state based on democratic forms of selection for office holders (Feijó 2015). The First Constitutional Government led by Mari Alkatiri commissioned a report known as the Local Governance Options Study (RDTL 2003). The LGOS report considered six possibilities, most of them consisting of two levels of decentralized administration units – one ­being what it termed the ‘perennial suku’ (i.e., the most traditional of the local units of power, of which there are 442 all over the country, and can be associated to the notion of ‘village’ although they also exist in urban settings), the other having an array of possible configurations for subnational units of larger size and enhanced competences. As for medium-sized units, the Fourth Constitutional Government led by Xanana Gusmão made an option: they would replace the extant 13 distritos (units of de-concentrated central state not subject to election) and rename them municípios that would have to sit on an electoral basis. Before the parliamentary elections in 2017, two bills regulating these novel organs of the decentralized state were brought to the floor of the House, open to public debate, discussed in detail in the specialized parliamentary committee – but not subject to a vote. It is expected that the new legislature will at long last establish the framework for these units that respond to a strong constitutional mandate. ­ odus Suku, on the other hand, were the objects of legislation regulating their status and m operandi. Elections were held in 2004/2005, 2009 and 2016 – all under different legal frameworks. The laws pertaining to this issue are very detailed as to the electoral process that includes the choice of a konselhu suku comprising a xefe suku, a xefe for each of the aldeias that exist in the suku two representatives of local women, and two representatives of youths, one being a woman. All the elected members then choose a lia na’in (literally, the lord of the word) to bridge the gap with traditional authorities. It is a fairly open process that allows for significant variation in the ways the articulations between modern time formal structures and ancestral, customary forms of political legitimacy, well studied by Deborah Cummins and Michael Leach (2012). H ­ owever, one must also note that the competence of the konsellu suku and its members is very loosely defined and points. Recent developments have increased their stake in public affairs, although mostly in an advisory capacity in all that goes beyond the traditional role of local leaders. The one thing that successive legislation on suku governance does is to indicate that suku governance units are not part of the state and therefore do not receive any delegation of 29

Rui Graça Feijó

central power nor are they entitled to receiver transfers from the state budget. Local leaders can act as advisors as to the most pressing needs of their communities – but decisions on and implementation of public works and serious legal matters remain in the hands of the de-­ concentrated central state. In summary, despite a strong constitutional mandate to develop a decentralized state and bring decisions closer to those who are directly affected by them, accommodating in the official administration of the territory institutional forms that are clear to the electors who can easily understand how they operate and feel empowered to control the process of political decision, the central authorities of Timor-Leste have taken only small steps to create a multilevel administration responsive to the citizens quest for participation. What Xanana Gusmão one day referred to as the ‘Second Maubere Miracle’ is still waiting to materialize.

Epilogue The performance of Timor-Leste in building a modern state run according to democratic principles is no mean achievement. But a comparative analysis of Timorese performance in light of international standards also puts in evidence the way towards consolidating and qualifying its democracy is still long. It may not be easy. There are a number of challenges facing the new nation (Feijó 2015). One of the more pressing ones is the generational turnover, as the country is dependent on leaders who were active as long ago as 1974–1975 (Xanana Gusmão, Mari Alkatiri and Ramos-Horta, amongst others), and public opinion still values the performance of candidates to public office through the lenses of their engagement with the resistance. In the recent past, there was a move to remove the generation of 1975 and replace it by the Gerasaun Foun (‘New ­Generation’). This was epitomized in the ascension of Rui Maria de Araujo (a well-­respected cadre who joined FRETILIN after serving as Health Minister in the first three governments in an ‘independent’, technocratic capacity) to the post of prime minister of the ‘Government of National Inclusion’ (2015–2017) that was supposed to bury ‘belligerent’ politics and let a new form of ‘consensus politics’ emerge. Key figures of the past seemed to be comfortable with their assigned roles slightly away from the limelight – Mari Alkatiri heading the ­Special Zone of Social Market Economy of Oecusse and Atauro, José Ramos-Horta playing in the international arena, Xanana withdrawing into a simple minister in the new cabinet. On the other hand, together with the novel prime minister, new faces were raising their public profile, like Dionísio Babo (CNRT) or António Conceição (PD). However, the returns of the last electoral cycle seem to have put all this on hold, as the old guard of katuas staged a comeback! The aftermath of the 2017 electoral cycle brought an interruption to this process. ­F RETILIN having won both the presidential elections (with the support of Xanana and his CNRT under the assumption that the ‘Government of National Inclusion’ would remain without significant changes) and the legislative ones (with an advantage of a mere 1,000 votes over CNRT translated in one seat more) claimed the post of prime minister to Mari Alkatiri and managed to elect the speaker of the House. With less than 30% of the vote, FRETILIN concentrated the three leading posts in the state apparatus. The idea that had presided over the end of ‘belligerent democracy’ collapsed, and a split between Xanana and Alkatiri marked the sequence of events and a return of strong competition amongst the leading ­parties – and their elderly leaders. Unable to obtain the necessary parliamentary

30

An unfinished journey

investiture for a minority government formed with the support of PD and the blessing of the president, FRETILIN asked for early elections. President Lu Olo could have offered the parliamentary majority that had created an alliance (CNRT, PLP and KHUNTO having 35 of 65 seats) a chance to create an alternative government, as they requested. However, he aligned himself with his party and dissolved the parliament in January 2018, calling elections for May 12. The first ever early elections in Timor-Leste returned a clear victory for the Alliance for Change and Development (Parliamentary Majority Alliance) composed of Xanana’s CNRT, Taur Matan Ruak’ PLP and KHUNTO. This coalition obtained 34 of the National ­Parliament’s 65 seats and, on its strength, formed the VIII Constitutional Government. This represents a novelty in Timorese history, as the country moved into a situation which is described by the notion of ‘cohabitation’ – ‘the situation where the president and the prime minister are from opposing parties and where the president’s party is not represented in the cabinet’ (Elgie 2011). Comparative experiences, of which the most prominent is France, suggest that this kind of political situation is prone to generate open competition between the president and the prime minister. In a context marked by the re-emergence of ‘belligerent democracy’, as was again evident in Timor-Leste after the 2017 elections, one may well expect that consensus will be all the more difficult than it is necessary. The semi-presidential regime, by offering both the ­president and the prime minister direct legitimacy through universal, popular vote, assumes power-sharing as a key component of the political system. But simultaneously, there are not always incentives for cooperation. The Timorese sidestepped this issue earlier by electing non-partisan, ‘independent’ presidents who did not seek to dispute the political agenda with the prime minister. Now things have evolved, and attention is required to the balance of ­powers. But 2019 has brought new reasons for concern and frictions remain high. If the political situation is now somehow unstable, the background to the consolidation of democracy offers reasons for optimism. Back in 2005, a provisional agreement on maritime borders reached by Australia and Timor-Leste allowed for the beginning of the exploitation of mineral fuel resources in the Timor Sea. This critical development permitted the new nation to face some basic and pressing needs of its population, as the state budget rose from under US$500 million to circa US$1.5 billion in a decade. The progression of Timor-Leste up the scale in the UN Development Programme’s Human Development Index is testimony of the enormous progress achieved in a dozen years. ‘Performance legitimacy’ is a form of sustaining a regime that actually delivers on popular expectations, be it democratic or not. In this case, the generous policies pursued by the Timorese authorities have contributed to root democracy in the social and political fabric of the nation. However, the oil and gas field ­contemplated in the 2005 agreement has already started a downward turn in output that could put in jeopardy the consolidation of democracy before the country reaches a sustainable level of welfare and economic development comprising non-oil sources of revenue. It was thus extremely important that in March 2018 the Australian and Timorese authorities reached a new agreement on their maritime borders, granting Timor-Leste access to a significantly increased share in offshore fields of fossil fuels. Conditions have improved for the country to reach by 2030 the status of upper middle-income country which is inscribed in its ‘National Strategic Plan’. If available resources keep growing and their management is carefully directed at savings and sound investment, there is reason to believe that the economy will play an important role in providing politicians and citizens as a whole the material conditions upon which they may travel the road to a consolidated, qualified and stable democracy.

31

Rui Graça Feijó

Notes 1 The argument of this chapter was first presented in an extended version in my book Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste, 1999–2012. The Birth of a Democratic Nation (Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2016). The argument has been condensed to fit in a chapter, but also expanded to cover the years up to the aftermath of the 2018 legislative elections. 2 Rechtsstaat translates as ‘the rule of law’. 3 The fact that deceased electors are not easy to eliminate from the electoral register means that each update is biased in terms of adding new electors without deleting those who have passed away. Those who have moved and register for a second time may also end up in duplicate. Figures for actual abstention are thus distorted as they count non-existent voters are potential electors. 4 Both Ramos-Horta in 2007 and Taur Matan Ruak in 2012 were supported by Xanana Gusmão, a key factor in their success.

References Alvarez, Michael, José Antonio Cheibub, Fernando Limongi and Adam Przeworski. 1996. ‘Classifying Political Regimes’, Studies in Comparative International Development 31 (2): 3–36. Anderson, Benedict. 1993. ‘Imagining Timor-Leste’, Arena Magazine 4: 7–33. Barnes, Susana. 2017. ‘The Re-assertion of Sacralized Authority in Post-occupatiom Uato-Lari’, in Susana de Matos Viegas and Rui Graça Feijó (eds), Transformations in Independent Timor-Leste. ­D ynamics of Social and Cultural Cohabitations. London: Routledge, 79–93. Beauvais, Joel C. 2001. ‘Benevolent Despotism: A Critique of UN State-Building in East Timor’, International Law and Politics 33: 1101–1178. Bjornlund, Eric C. 2004. Beyond Free and Fair: Monitoring Elections and Building Democracy. Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Centre with Johns Hopkins University Press. Blondel, Jean. 2015. The Presidential Republic. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Chesterman, Simon. 2001. East Timor in Transition: From Conflict Prevention to State Building. New York: International Peace Academy. Chesterman, Simon. 2004. ‘Building Democracy through Benevolent Autocracy’, in Edward ­Newman and Roland Rich (eds), The UN Role in Promoting Democracy. Tokyo: United Nations University Press, 86–112. Chopra, Jarat. 2002. ‘Building State Failure in East Timor’, Development and Change 33 (5): 979–1000. Cummins, Deborah and Michael Leach. 2013. ‘Democracy Old and New: The Interaction of Modern and Traditional Authority in Local Government’, in Michael Leach and Damien Kingsbury (eds), The Politics of Timor-Leste. Ithaca, NY: Cornell Southeast Asia Program, 163–178. Dahl, Robert. 1971. Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Duverger, Maurice. 1996. Le Système Politique Français. Droit Constitutionnel et Science Politique. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Elgie, Robert. 2011. Semi-presidentialism: Sub-types and Democratic Performance. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Elkins, Zachary, Tom Ginsburg and James Melton. 2009. The Endurance of National Constitutions. ­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ETTA. 2001. ‘Report on the Political Transition Calendar’. Standing Committee on Political Affairs, East Timor Transitional Authority. Roneo kept at the Library and Archive of the National Parliament of Timor-Leste. Feijó, Rui Graça. 2014. ‘Semi-presidentialism, Moderating Power and Inclusive Governance: The Experience of Timor-Leste in Consolidating Democracy’, Democratization 21 (2): 268–288. Feijó, Rui Graça. 2015. ‘Timor-Leste: The Adventurous Tribulations of Local Governance after ­Independence’, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs 1: 85–114. Feijó, Rui Graça. 2016. Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste, 1999–2012. The Birth of a Democratic Nation. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Feijó, Rui Graça. 2017. Democracia: Linhagens e Cpnfigurações de um conceito impuro. Porto: Afrontamento. Grimm, Sonja and Julia Leininger. 2012. ‘Do All Good Things Go Together? Conflicting Objectives in Democracy Promotion’, Democratization 19 (3): 391–414. Hirschman, Albert O. 1963. Journeys toward Progress: Studies of Economic Policy-Making in Latin America. New York: Twentieth Century Fund.

32

An unfinished journey Hohe, Tanja. 2004. Clash of Paradigms in East Timor: Introducing Anthropology in State-Building. PhD dissertation. Frankfurt: Johann-Wolfgang-Goethe-Universität. Jalali, Carlos. 2011. ‘The President Is Not a Passenger: Portuguese Evolving Semi-presidentialism’, in Robert Elgie, Sophia Moestrup and Yu-Shan Wu (eds), Semi-presidentialism and Democracy. ­Basigstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 156–173. King D.Y. 2003. East Timor’s founding elections and emerging party system, Asian Survey 45(5) 745–757. Kingsbury, Damian. 2009. East Timor: The Price of Liberty. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Lemay-Hébert, Nicolas. 2011. ‘The “Empty-Shell” Approach: The Setup Process of International Administration in Timor-Leste and Kosovo: Its Consequences and Lessons’, International Studies Perspectives 12: 190–211. Linz, Juan J. 1997. ‘Democracy Today: An Agenda for Students of Democracy’, Scandinavian Political Studies 20 (2): 115–134. Lobo, Marina Costa and Octávio Amorim Neto. 2009. O Semi-presidencialismo nos Países de Língua Portuguesa. Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais. Mayall, James and Ricardo Soares de Oliveira (eds). 2011. The New Protectorates: International Tutelage and the Making of Liberal States. London: Hurst & Co. McWilliam, Andrew. 2008. ‘Customary Governance in Timor-Leste’, in David Mearns (ed.), ­D emocratic Governance in Timor-Leste: Reconciling the Local and the National. Darwin: Darwin ­University Press, 129–142. Morlino, Leonardo. 2011. Changes for Democracy: Actors, Structures, Processes. Oxford: Oxford ­University Press. Nevins, Joseph. 2002. ‘(Mis)representing East Timor’s Past: Structural-Symbolic Violence, International Laws and the Institutionalization of Justice’, Journal of Human Rights 1 (4): 523–540. Pastor, Robert A. 1999. ‘The Role of Electoral Administration in Democratic Transitions: ­Implications for Policy and Research’, Democratization 6 (4): 1–27. Powell, Samantha. 2008. Chasing the Flame: Sergio Vieira de Mello and the Fight to Save the World. ­L ondon: Allen Lane. Przeworski, Adam, Michael Alvarez, Jose Antonio Cheibub and Fernando Limongi. 2000. Democracy and Development: Political Institutions and Well-Being in the World, 1950–1990. Cambridge: ­Cambridge University Press. RDTL (República Democrática de Timor-Leste – Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste) 2003. ­L ocal ­Government Options Study: Final Report, www.estatal.gov.tl/Documents/DNDLOT/­Option% 20Study%202006/LGOS%Report.pdf Reilly, Benjamin. 2008. ‘Post-conflict Elections: Uncertain Points of Transition’, in Anna Jarstad and Timothy Sisk (eds), From War to Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 157–181. Rustow, Dankwart. 1970. ‘Transitions to Democracy. Toward a Dynamic Model’, Comparative Politics 2 (3): 337–363. Saldanha, João Mariano. 2008. ‘Anatomy of Political Parties in Timor-Leste’, in Roland Rich, Luke Hambly and Michael G. Morgan (eds), Political Parties in the Pacific Island. Canberra: Australian National University Press, 69–81. Sartori, Giovanni. 1997 Comparative Constitutional Engineering: An Inquiry into Structures, Incentives and Outcomes. New York: New York University Press. Schedler, Andreas. 2002. ‘The Menu of Manipulation’, Journal of Democracy 13 (2): 36–50. Schmitter, Philippe and Terry Lynn Karl. 1991. ‘What Democracy Is…and Is Not’, Journal of Democracy 2 (3): 67–73. Schmitter Philippe and Javier Santiso. 1998. ‘Three Temporal Dimensions of the Consolidation of Democracy’, International Political Science Review 19 (1): 69–92. Shoesmith, Dennis. 2008. ‘Legislative-Executive Relations in Timor-Leste: The Case for Building a Stronger Parliament’, in David Mearns (ed.), Democratic Governance in Timor-Leste. Darwin: Darwin University Press, 71–84. Siapno, Jacqueline. 2006. ‘Timor-Leste: On the Path to Authoritarianism?’, Southeast Asian Affairs 1: 325–342. Siaroff, Alan. 2003. ‘Comparative Presidencies: The Inadequacy of the Presidential, Semipresidential and Parliamentary Distinction’, European Journal of Political Research 4 (3): 287–312. Simonsen, Sven Gunnar. 2006. ‘The Authoritarian Temptation in East Timor: Nation Building and the Need for Inclusive Governance’, Asian Survey 46 (4): 575–596.

33

Rui Graça Feijó Smith, Anthony L. 2004a. ‘East Timor: Elections in the World’s Newest Nation’, Journal of Democracy 15 (2): 145–159. Smith Anthony, L. 2004b. ‘Timor-Leste: Strong Government, Weak State’, Southeast Asian Afffairs 1: 277–294. Suhrke, Astri. 2001. ‘Peacekeepers as National Builders: Dilemmas of the UN in East Timor’, International Peacekeeping 8 (4): 1–20. Tansey, Oisin. 2009. Regime Building: Democratization and International Administration. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Viegas, Susana de Matos and Rui Graça Feijó. 2017. ‘Introduction: Exploring Cohabitation in Timor-Leste’ in Susana de Matos Viegas and Rui Graça Feijó, Transformations in Independent Timor-Leste. Dynamics of Social and Cultural Cohabitations. London: Routledge, 1–41. Wallis, Joanne. 2013. ‘What Role Can Decentralization Play in State-building? Lessons from Timor-Leste and Bougainville’, Commonwealth and Comparative Politics 51 (4): 424–466.

34

3 GUSMÃO’S RULING STRATEGY From peace building to purchase and coercion Douglas Kammen

In February 2015, Timor-Leste’s Prime Minister Xanana Gusmão resigned midterm a­ fter leading the young country for seven years. Gusmão’s chosen successor, Rui M ­ aria de Araújo, appointed a more streamlined cabinet, marked above all by inclusion of ­prominent figures from Gusmão’s ruling coalition as well as his own party, Frente ­R evolucionária de ­Timor-Leste Independente (FRETILIN), that had opposed Gusmão following the 2007 elections. This new accommodation ushered in a period of remarkable political calm and stability. ­E xtra-­parliamentary challenges to the government ceased, the country’s ­often-troublesome martial arts groups were kept in check, and civil society organizations generally bowed to the new status quo. Respite from elite in-fighting and party competition was much needed, particularly with presidential elections scheduled for March 2017 and the national legislative election due to follow in June or July. But what this recent quiescence meant was far from clear. Analysis of politics in Timor-Leste has often taken polarized forms. In the first three years after the restoration of independence, some scholars praised the Fretilin government for focusing on basic needs and taking a tough stand in international negotiations with Australia over the Timor Sea maritime boundary (Cotton 2005), while others cautioned that the semi-presidential system was institutionalizing political cleavages (Shoesmith 2003) and warned against authoritarian tendencies (Simonsen 2006). With the breakdown of the security forces and large-scale communal violence in the capital in 2006, widespread praise for the UN’s role in ushering the country to independence was replaced by accusations that the Timorese people had failed to internalize democratic norms and alarmist charges of state failure (Cotton 2007; Mendes 2008). The election of a new coalition government in 2007 set the stage for recovery, but analysis remained deeply divided. Where some analysts saw democratic resilience (Feijó 2009) and much-needed state-led investment, others saw strong-armed tactics, corruption (Blunt 2009), and wasted resources (Scambary 2015). For some, Gusmão’s resignation and stated aim of beginning a process of generational change is evidence of wise leadership and commitment to democratic processes (Feijó 2016). Others, however, view the political rapprochement between Gusmão and Fretilin and the victory of their favored candidates in the 2017 elections as evidence of the emergence of a political cartel and, with the gutting of any real opposition, a move toward ‘a dominant party state’ (Kingsbury 2017). 35

Douglas Kammen

In place of these polarized depictions, we need a more nuanced analysis that addresses three core questions: What kind of regime emerged out of the 2006 crisis? What ideas and interests have informed the government’s policy agenda and choices? Outside the government, how is the exercise of political power viewed and what social groups have the capacity to tip the balance of power during regular elections or through extra-electoral mobilization? To answer these questions, this chapter employs the analytical categories Antonio Gramsci developed to explain the nature of bourgeois power/hegemony in Western democracies. The key terms in Gramsci’s conception of hegemony are consent and coercion. The former involves acceptance of democratic norms and capitalist economics, which is achieved both ‘within’ the state, via elections, and in the realm of civil society, via the role of intellectuals, the media, and myriad forms of cultural production. The latter, which in theory the state claims a monopoly over, involves the use or threat of force to secure bourgeois rule. But coercion and consent do not exhaust the realm of possibilities. Between these poles, Gramsci identified two additional stratagems of rule: constraint and corruption. ­Constraint may be found in patronage or cacique systems, in which powerful local figures exert strong control over constituents, as well as the fear of unemployment in more fully developed ­capitalist settings. Corruption, in Gramsci’s schema, refers to consent by purchase, rather than by persuasion.1 Gramsci’s four ‘c’s provide a useful way to move beyond the ­one-­d imensional characterizations of democracy and non-democracy (i.e. the emergence of authoritarian tendencies) found in much recent analysis on Timor-Leste. To avoid confusion with the conventional use of the word ‘corruption’ (which has also been the subject of concern in Timor-Leste), this chapter employs the word ‘purchase’ in its place.

Buying peace To make sense of the response to the 2006 crisis, it is essential to distinguish between several activities that are often conflated in the literature on Timor-Leste: peacekeeping involves ­reestablishing and maintaining order; peacemaking involves negotiating agreement between the principle political actors on the mechanisms and terms of conflict resolution; and peacebuilding involves encouraging the parties to conflict to accept the terms of resolution, to ­adhere to democratic processes, and to promote trust. Scholarship on Timor-Leste has shown far more interest in peacekeeping (which they generally see as being successful) and peacebuilding (the results of which have met with a mixed reception), but has tended to neglect the critical issue of how the means and timing of conflict resolution affected outcomes. On the same day Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri resigned his post in June 2006, President Gusmão filled the void by appointing José Ramos-Horta, then Minister of Foreign Affairs, as interim Prime Minister. Dramatic as it was, this stopped short of a full-scale takeover by Gusmão and his political allies – the Democratic Party (PD), the Social Democratic Party (PSD), and the Timorese Social Democratic Association (ASDT). In response to repeated ­requests made by Gusmão and Ramos-Horta, the UN Security Council soon mandated the establishment of a new UN Mission in Timor-Leste and supplemented the initial contingent of Australian peacekeepers to make up an International Stabilization Force.2 ­Peacekeeping was now in place, though low-level conflict between rival martial arts groups – mostly ­involving homemade weapons and rocks – persisted over the next year. The next step was peacemaking – the search for a solution to the crisis. Politicians across the political spectrum quickly came to an unspoken agreement that the national elections scheduled for 2007 would provide that resolution. Some members of the Timorese political elite may have genuinely internalized this liberal democratic view and approach, but 36

Gusmão’s ruling strategy

many others went along either because this offered advantages or only with great reluctance. Waiting for national elections to be held had critical consequences. The appointment of Ramos-Horta as interim Prime Minister alongside the continued Fretilin majority in parliament created a policy vacuum: every serious issue was so highly politicized that stalemate ensued. Throughout the second half of 2006 and the first months of 2007, no serious efforts were made to vacate the camps into which tens of thousands of internally displaced people (IDPs) had congregated.3 This was in part because of real uncertainty about security (Asia ­Foundation 2015). But it was also a function of humanitarian assistance becoming a ‘project’ that donors and international nongovernmental organizations were eager to support. There were also political reasons: in the eyes of East Timorese leaders, the IDPs were not simply innocent bystanders who had tragically lost property and homes; they were constituencies on whom leaders depended in the ongoing political struggle for state power. In short, peacekeeping and the informal agreement to resolve the conflict via national elections resulted in a year-long deferral of peacebuilding. The results of the 2007 elections were a decisive victory for the Gusmão alliance, with Ramos-Horta elected President and Gusmão coming to head a new coalition government (the Parliamentary Majority Alliance, abbreviated AMP). Fretilin leaders were outraged by the outcome and party loyalists responded through the use of violence, particularly in the eastern districts (Leach 2009: 227–228). Despite these disturbances, the completion of elections promised to end the painful interregnum and opened the possibility of building peace. But of what kind? On the surface, post-2007 election peacebuilding appeared to be a return to and continuation of post-1999 peacebuilding. Much of the same language was trotted out once again by the government and international agencies. However, there was a fundamental difference between the celebrated first period of peacebuilding under UN Transitional Administration in East Timor and the post-crisis peacebuilding endeavors. In 1999–2002, the United Nations operated in a unique context in which there was no sovereign state, giving rise to a view that East Timor was a ‘blank slate’ on which international best practices could be put into action. In 2007, by contrast, Timor-Leste was a sovereign state and the Gusmão-led AMP government was intent on asserting its own vision of peace and development. The newly installed AMP government’s immediate peacebuilding program targeted the three most public and pressing issues of the day: (1) the large number of IDPs;4 (2) the petitioners from the military (Forças de Defesa de Timor-Leste – F-FDTL) who had provided the lightning rod for the onset of crisis; and (3) renegade military police commander Major Reinado, who had served as a potent and useful symbol of Western opposition, particularly in the western districts to Fretilin but, with elections completed, was no longer a political asset to the new government. Gusmão summed up his approach to peacebuilding: ‘We had to make policies to buy peace’ (Goldstone 2012: 22–23; Murdoch 2008). Policy choices regarding the petitioners were constrained by the vested interests of F-FDTL leaders. Gusmão initially proposed that the petitioners each be paid the equivalent of three-year’s salary as compensation for unfair dismissal and that those who wanted to rejoin be accepted back into the military. Senior F-FDTL officers rejected this, insisting that these men were ‘defectors’ and floated the idea of recruiting new cadets to bring the force back to full strength. While public debate dragged on, Gusmão formulated offers intended to appease multiple actors. Each petitioner was offered US$8,000, the equivalent to three years of back pay, plus an additional US$1,500 each.5 Meanwhile, a more secret deal was offered to veterans from the East – now called Força 20-20 – who had been mobilized by 37

Douglas Kammen

F-FDTL commanders in mid-2006.6 A similar approach was adopted with regard to the tens of thousands of IDPs. A number of proposals were made and discussed, but in the end the government offered compensation ranging from US$500 for loss of property to a maximum of US$4,500 for the loss of a dwelling or residence. These grants and associated administrative costs eventually totaled US$56 million and succeeded in emptying the IDP camps.7 Gusmão’s strategy of ‘buying peace’ was made possible by the revenue from offshore oil and natural gas that had accrued rapidly over the previous three years in the Timor-Leste Petroleum Fund, which was established, with careful input from international experts, in 2005. It is crucial to note that the onset of the Global Financial Crisis in 2007 provided further encouragement for this strategy. The crisis in the advanced industrial countries fueled a sharp spike in global commodity prices. When the political crisis hit Timor-Leste in mid-2006, oil prices were around US$70/barrel and natural gas prices were at US$6/MMBtu. In the three months following the formation of the AMP government, these had increased by 33%, and peaked at US$144/barrel and US$12/MMBtu, respectively, in mid-2008. The windfall revenue from soaring prices thus facilitated the passage of far larger budgets and major allocations for new public transfers. The AMP government’s first budget, covering the last five months of 2007, totaled US$232 million, of which 10% was allocated for public transfers; the 2008 national budget totaled US$601.5 million, of which a staggering 22% (US$132.2 million) was for public transfers. But not all parties to the crisis could be demobilized through cash transfers and other forms of state largesse. Major Alfredo Reinado and his small band of armed men remained at large in the central highlands. This undermined the government’s claim that it had restored peace and created ongoing friction between Prime Minister Gusmão, President Ramos-Horta, F-FDTL senior commanders, and the Fretilin opposition. In early 2008, a compromise was reached to bring Reinado to trial. This, in turn, prompted a standoff at Ramos-Horta’s private residence during which the president was critically injured and Reinado was killed.8 Abandoning his previous soft-line approach, Gusmão declared a state of siege and ordered a military operation against the remaining ‘rebels’.

Purchase The short-term strategy of buying peace rapidly morphed into a general ruling strategy. Acting in violation of the Estimated Sustainable Income benchmark for withdrawals from the Petroleum Fund, the AMP government passed larger and larger national budgets. The government justified these budgets in terms of providing the capital necessary to improve basic infrastructure and jump-start the economy. Infrastructure and the provision of basic services were badly needed, of course. But spending alone does not make for improved infrastructure, as the spoiled fruits of the 2009 Referendum Packet made clear. Instead of development, I want to suggest that the core of the AMP strategy involved a combination of direct cash transfers, subsidies, and large government contracts, each directed at a particular constituency. The payments to potential spoilers after the 2006–2007 crisis encouraged veterans of the resistance to the Indonesian occupation to lobby for a pension. According to the I­ nternational Crisis Group (2013: 3), ‘payments began in April 2008 to a small number and expanded to over US$100 million in the 2012 budget’.9 Additional legislation provided for monthly payments to be made to the widows and children of martyrs of the resistance, though there were significant delays in the registration process (Timor Post, 8 April 2010). Further cooptation of veterans of the resistance was achieved by granting government development contracts, of which rural electrification became the centerpiece.10 38

Gusmão’s ruling strategy

The AMP government also greatly expanded the range of subsidies and direct cash transfers targeted at the population as a whole. The most significant subsidies were for rice ­( between 2007 and 2010) and the ongoing subsidy for electricity (which costs the state tens of millions of dollars each year). New decree laws were also passed providing monthly payments for the elderly, the disabled, and single mothers.11 These programs generally proved to be popular. In some cases, such as that of the pension for elderly, there were reports of serious abuses and the registration of those who did not meet the specified criteria. Taken together, these schemes are best understood as side payments intended to appease a populace whose high expectations about what independence would bring remained frustratingly unfulfilled. Alongside ‘buying off’ spoilers and side payments made to the general population, the Gusmão governments targeted members of the national elite. The very first piece of legislation passed by the AMP-controlled parliament in 2007 was for a huge increase in salaries and benefits for members of parliament. The expansion of the civil service, often under the guise of contract work before formal acceptance as permanent state employees, further increased the ranks of those receiving monthly salaries. But the centerpiece of the state’s policy toward elites has been the granting of contracts for the procurement of goods and infrastructure development, and to a lesser extent contracts at grossly inflated rates for consulting and employment as international experts. This was made possible by the enormous increase in the size of the annual state budget and a commitment to stimulating the private sector; and it has facilitated corruption on a scale unimaginable ten years before. Following the 2012 election, in which Gusmão and his allies were returned to power, the government did in fact reduce the amount appropriated from the Petroleum Fund for the 2013 budget and, in consultation with the International Monetary Fund, agreed to abide by a new ‘Yellow Road’ level of sustainable spending. Less than six months later, however, the government abrogated this commitment and approved appropriations that were 33% above those that were recommended. This was money politics on a grander and grander scale. State-funded megaprojects are the largest line items in the national budgets, and for this reason have garnered the most attention from domestic critiques and foreign scholars (Neves 2013; Scambary 2015). Much of this analysis has either focused on the (un)sustainability of the Petroleum Fund, the ‘resource curse’, or the political uses of the largest development plans. A less noted result of peacebuilding and regime consolidation is that veterans were ­emerging as a powerful political bloc. The original 2008 budget of US$347.7 million ­initially included US$16 million for veterans (4.6%), but with a midyear revision the national budget ­increased to US$788.3 million with US$40.5 million allocated for veterans (5.2%). ­Budgeting ran well ahead of applications and vetting, however. At year’s end, only US$4 million was ­actually dispersed, with the remainder rolled over to the following year’s ­budget. In 2010, the ­initial state budget of US$660 million included US$24 million for ­veterans (3.63%); midyear ­revisions to the budget brought the share for veterans to 6%; and as a ­percentage of the end-of-year executed budget of US$758 million, veterans received US$49.9 million, or 6.6%. The following year, the initial state budget allocated US$82.7 ­ illion million for veterans (6.3%), but this figure fell in the rectified budget to US$72.7 m (5.6%), and only US$45 million was actually dispersed, bringing veterans’ payments to a more ­modest 4.1% of the executed budget. In 2013 and 2014, veterans were allocated 5.5% of the national budget, a figure more than twice that for the military, and in 2015 this rose to a whopping 8.74%, or three and a half times the budget for the military (Table 3.1)! A few comparisons help to put these budget allocations for veterans in perspective. ­Domestically, between 2010 and 2016 more money was allocated in the initial state budgets 39

Douglas Kammen Table 3.1  Timor-Leste budget allocation for the military and veterans’ payments (in ­m illion US$) Original passed budget Total

2007a 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017

Military

Veterans

US$ (million)

US$ (million)

Percent

US$ (million)

Percent

116 348 680 660 1,306 1,674 1,647 1,500 1,570 1,562 1,387

2.5 13.9 34.7 17.7 14.2 22.0 41.4 34.8 32.8 28.0 27.0

2.17 4.0 5.11 2.68 1.09 1.31 2.51 2.32 2.09 1.79 1.95

2.0 16.0 15.8 24.0 82.7 80.5 95.8 87.8 137.2 107.0 105.0

1.72 4.60 2.32 3.63 6.34 4.81 5.82 5.86 8.74 6.85 7.57

Source: Compiled from RDTL national budgets posted on the La’o Hamutuk website. a First AMP budget backdated to cover July to December 2007.

for veterans’ benefits (US$616 million) than for health and agriculture combined (US$611 million). Over the same period, the initial budget for veterans was nearly as much as the much-criticized Tasi Mane Petroleum Corridor and the Oecussi special economic zone combined (US$629 million), and was almost certainly more in the executed budgets. One might also consider the ratio between the budget for the military and that for veterans’ benefits in comparative perspective. In advanced economies, such as the United States and Australia, the ratio between the regular military budgets (excluding overseas operations/war) is on the order of 4:1. In Timor-Leste, this was inverted to 1:3. Veterans had become a megaproject of their own. Budgeting for veterans is not simply a function of the provisions of the veteran’s law and the number of individuals who served in the armed resistance to Indonesian rule. It has also been driven by specific political needs. In 2008, as the AMP government sought to turn crisis management into a ruling strategy, veterans were promised large sums despite the fact that the state was not yet ready to deliver on this promise. In 2011, with national elections looming the following year, the government was eager to ensure that it received the widest possible support and that veterans typically hold considerable clout in their communities. In 2015, as Gusmão handed the premiership to his chosen successor, veterans were once again a critical political constituency. Veterans often enjoy considerable respect and influence in their home areas, and with experience in the use of violence also present a potential threat. They are by no means the sole beneficiaries of the political and economic strategy pursued by the government of Timor-Leste over the past decade, but the resources allocated to veterans and the influence the veterans block has come to wield in parliament illustrate the logic and consequences of the ruling strategy. That Gusmão’s strategy of buying peace after the 2006 crisis had become the basis of a new ruling strategy was bluntly acknowledged by many in the country’s political elite, including those who enjoyed the closest relations with Gusmão. In 2010, Speaker of ­Parliament 40

Gusmão’s ruling strategy

­ ernando ‘Lasama’ Araújo commented positively: ‘Xanana has succeeded in buying peace’ F (Diário Nasional, April 1, 2010). Five years later, José Ramos-Horta summed up Gusmão’s achievements: ‘So far Prime Minister Gusmão has kept a fragile peace by spending significant amounts in expanding patronage networks, awarding contracts and other benefits to supporters and buying off critics’ (Cleary 2015). The paralysis of the state in 2006–2007 meant that subsidies, cash transfers, and contracts were far and away the easiest way to spend: they required relatively little in the way of state capacity and could be targeted at specific constituencies. Ironically, these cash transfers, subsidies, and cash-for-work schemes eerily resemble the sort of wasteful and counterproductive statism that the opposition had accused Fretilin of planning. But not everyone was enamored with Gusmão’s strategy. President Taur Matan Ruak opposed the pensions granted to veterans in extremely blunt terms: ‘They are given monthly pensions and contribute nothing’ ( Jakarta Post, November 25, 2012).

Coercion What are the political limits of the AMP strategy of buying off spoilers, appeasing popular demands for material benefits through subsidies and a host of cash transfers, and presenting grandiose promises of long-term economic development? I specify the political limits because I am not asking about the economic sustainability of the petroleum fund and current ­levels of budgeting, topics that have been addressed comprehensively elsewhere in the literature (Scheiner 2014). Instead, I want to draw attention to the problematic assumption that ­common measures of democratic consolidation imply that the East Timorese people are ­persuaded that democratic procedures are legitimate, that the ideological underpinnings of state policy coincide with the national interest, or that current budgeting practices will produce sustained economic growth. A survey conducted by the Asia Foundation in 2014 found that 77% of the population viewed the government’s performance as ‘good’ or ‘very good’, and 58% thought that the economic situation of their households had improved.12 It is undoubtedly true that some East Timorese believed that the government strategy of buying peace and the subsequent use of subsidies, cash transfers, and private-sector contracts would bring a better future. But genuine consent for the AMP strategy was (and may still be) strongest in the Western ­d istricts, and especially so in areas closest to Dili and other urban centers, where in 2008– 2009 subsidized rice was sold at or near the specified price, where subsidized electricity was available, and where there were prospects of benefiting from trickle-down economics. At greater distance east and especially south of the central mountain range, there was significantly less support for the government and its policies. And once windfall payments and cash transfers were spent – on new homes and consumables such as motorcycles, cars, parties, and women – many of these actors demanded more, much to the irritation of Prime Minister Gusmão. When consent is not obtained through elections and performance and when acquiescence cannot be purchased, rulers may resort to coercion. Since the formation of the AMP government in 2007, coercion – understood both in terms of the use of force and restrictions on rights – has been an ongoing feature of the political landscape in Timor-Leste. Beginning in mid-2007, according to reliable informants, Prime Minister Gusmão set in motion not-so covert meddling in the affairs of a number of political parties. The first target, remarkably, was one of his own coalition partners – Mario Carrascalão’s PSD. In 2010, it was the turn of the ASDT. ASDT supported the first Fretilin government until 2005, when party leader Francisco Xavier do Amaral withdrew his backing and threw his weight behind 41

Douglas Kammen

the Gusmão-led opposition. In 2010, however, with accusations of corruption against ASDT figures in the cabinet, Amaral declared that his party intended to ‘return home’ to Fretilin in the 2012 election (Sydney Morning Herald, March 15, 2012). In response, Gusmão again employed loyalists to split the party, all but removing it from the political landscape. The same tactic was also applied to the relatively insignificant Partido Povo Timor, whose fanciful monarchist program drew support in a single district. Such meddling was not difficult given the weak institutionalization of most political parties and the eagerness of any number of operatives to curry favor with a Prime Minister who had quickly consolidated political and economic power. The Gusmão administration also oversaw a new militarization. The initial impetus for this was provided in early 2008, following what was misleadingly presented to the public as an assassination attempt on the lives of President Ramos-Horta and Prime Minister Gusmão. The prime minister responded by declaring a state of emergency. While there was a real need to address the lingering threat posed by renegade members of the security forces, the state of emergency provided a pretext for the government to begin posting F-FDTL units, which previously had been restricted to bases in Lautem-Baucau and Manatuto, to other districts and involve the military in internal policing. This resulted in periodic episodes of intimidation and even violent encounters with rural communities.13 As the AMP government consolidated its control over parliament and the budgetary process, the locus of opposition swung outward to the districts. Of particular concern were groups that rejected the legitimacy of the government. None was more important than the Popular Council for the Defense of the Democratic Republic of East Timor (Conselho Popular pela Defesa de República Democrática de Timor-Leste, abbreviated CPD-RDTL), which had been a minor irritant ever since the UN transitional administration. Of secondary ­concern were martial arts groups that had played a critical role in the 2006 crisis. The AMP ­government responded to these challenges by passing decrees that limited freedom of ­a ssociation. ­CPD-RDTL was banned in 2010 and martial arts groups were banned in 2013, though implementation was always problematic. Into the void stepped a new challenger. In late 2013, a former resistance commander named Paulino ‘Mauk Moruk’ Gama returned to Timor-Leste from the Netherlands, where he had lived for nearly 30 years.14 Mauk Moruk quickly declared the establishment of the Maubere Revolutionary Council (crm) and called for the resignation of the government and a return to the 1975 constitution, positions long championed by CPD-RDTL. Supporters in his home region of Baucau held public demonstrations. In response to the perceived threat, in March 2014 parliament issued Resolution 15/2014, stating that Mauk Moruk’s crm and cpd-rdtl violated the constitution, the penal code, and Decree Law 7/2014, and both ­organizations were declared illegal. The National Police of Timor-Leste conducted operations against both crm and cpd-rdtl, with further arrests at the cpd-rdtl head office in Balide in Dili. Sporadic repression continued for several months, culminating in a police operation in which Mauk Moruk was shot dead. Repression also extended to freedom of speech. In early 2014, the government floated a draft Media Law that would significantly curtail the freedom of journalists, regulate media ownership, and require foreign journalists who wished to operate within the country to obtain official permits. Despite widespread objections from civil society, parliament approved the draft law in May 2014 and then submitted it to the President of the Republic. Rather than using his prerogative right to approve or veto the law, President Taur Matan Ruak asked the Court of Appeal to examine it. The Court of Appeal returned the draft law to parliament for improvement and advised that the draft law must be compatible with the constitution. 42

Gusmão’s ruling strategy

Late in the year, the Court of Appeal declared the Media Law to be unconstitutional. In response, Vice President of Parliament Adriano Nascimento rejected the court decision on grounds that it was issued by an international judge, who was subsequently expelled from the country.15 Passage of the new Media Law stimulated widespread outcry from human rights organizations, journalists, and civil society in the country and received considerable international media coverage. What initially appeared to be the use or threat of force to end the crisis and maintain order had, over time, became a pattern of increasing repression and attacks on basic freedoms. It is important to situate the rising tide of state coercion within the larger project of state-­ building. At the most basic level, state-building involves expanding the geographic scope of central authority and developing the institutions necessary to enforce it. To do so, authorities typically seek to dispose of rival centers of power, mobilize manpower for ­security purposes, and extract revenue. Coercion is central to all three of these activities. Over the course of seven years, the Gusmão-led governments sought to dispose of rival centers of power and ensure order throughout the territory, but stopped short on other counts. While there has been much talk about revamping local government and decentralizing authority, little has been achieved. Why is this so? The fundamental reason is economic. Given the overwhelming predominance of subsistence agriculture, no meaningful extractable surplus is produced – not even in the coffee sector – that can provide an independent basis for political rivals. On the other side of the coin, the relatively huge sums accruing in and withdrawn from Timor-Leste’s Petroleum Fund have meant that the central government has not needed to raise more than symbolic revenue directly from the populace. In short, state-building ­beyond the capital has focused on the establishment of order, not administrative capacity. And where purchase met its limits, coercion provided a final stop-gap response.

Conclusion The relative quiescence experienced under the leadership of Rui Maria de Araújo must not be confused with generalized acceptance of the uses of the petroleum fund, budgetary allocations, the performance of the civil service, or the neoliberal prescriptions within which these are embedded. Nor should the corresponding reduction in the use of direct force and legal manipulation since 2015 be taken as a sign that a repressive moment has passed. Rather, the appearance of popular acquiescence and greater respect for legal niceties are the clearest possible indicators of the success of a ruling strategy that involves a combination of democratic elections, purchase and coercion. The 2007, 2012, and 2017 elections were conducted freely and fairly, providing an element of real legitimacy. The 2006 crisis and the 2008 ­‘assassination’ attempts could only be overcome through the use or threat of violence. And if economic stimulus as well as direct cash transfers to vulnerable and deserving segments of the population have helped to address the high expectations many Timorese had following independence, each of these points must be qualified in important respects. Elections are not simply an exercise in the establishment of representative government and a means of producing legitimacy; they also involve campaign promises that candidates, once elected, may not be able to keep or even wish to honor. Stability is a prerequisite for functioning democracy, but the enforcement of stability and the protection of officials from public criticism or legal challenges may exceed the requirements of democracy. Finally, surveys showing approval in the government’s performance may reflect not only consent but also the successful appeasement (read: purchase) of popular sectors and elites alike. But it is Timor-Leste’s veterans who have emerged as the true megaproject. 43

Douglas Kammen

Notes 1 Gramsci (1971), p. 80, fn. 48. Between consent and force stands corruption/fraud (which is characteristic of certain s­ ituations when it is hard to exercise the hegemonic function, and when the use of force is too risky). This consists in procuring the demoralization and paralysis of the antagonist (or antagonists) by buying its leaders – either covertly, or, in cases of imminent danger, openly in order to sow disarray and confusion in his ranks. Elsewhere, Gramsci uses the term ‘purchase’ as a synonym for corruption/fraud and allows for a somewhat wider application. 2 The United Nations and its mission were ostensibly a neutral party tasked with maintaining the peace and nudging Timorese elites toward a solution to the crisis. The reality was that, as under the UN interregnum from 1999 to 2002, UN officials clearly favored Gusmão and his allies. 3 A great deal has been written about the 2006–2007 crisis. Among the clearest of these works are ICG (2006), Moxham (2008), and Scambary (2009). For the history of communal identities, see Kammen (2010). 4 Figures for the number of IDPs varied widely. In 2006–2007, a figure of 150,000 people was often mentioned; more recently, observers have cited a vague but perhaps safer figure of more than 100,000, of whom perhaps only 30,000 were in designated IDP camps. 5 ‘Integração dos ex-militares na vida civil’, Decree 12/2008, dated 11 June 2008. Soldiers who deserted prior to 2006 were eligible for a slightly smaller package. 6 There are conflicting accounts of the justification for these payments. Some informants claim the payments were a ‘subsidy’ for defending the state, while others argue that this was compensation for being ‘victims’ of the crisis. 7 An article in Timor Post on 7 May 2010, claimed the total cost to the government of emptying the camps came US$255 million. 8 The government’s official line is that Reinado and his men attempted to assassinate the ­president while Gastão Salsinha, the leader of the renegade petitioners, attempted to kill Prime Minister Gusmão. Australian intelligence and autopsy reports contradict this version of events. My ­informants suggest that although armed, Reinado and his men had come to speak with ­R amos-Horta about the plan to try him in absentia, but were then ambushed. 9 By 2009, 125,000 individuals had registered for the pension. By 2015, according to a well-placed source, 40,000 veteran’s applications had been approved, with another 100,000 applications yet to be processed. 10 Well-placed sources in Dili say that the recipients of these contracts, most of whom do not have real businesses, typically turn around and sell the contracts to Indonesian carpetbaggers for 20% of the total value. See also ICG (2011). 11 The Pensaun Idozas, passed in 2008, initially involved a monthly payment to those over the age of 60 of US$20, which has since been increased to US$30. 12 Two years later, however, only 58% of people surveyed by the Asia Foundation thought that the country was ‘going in the right direction’. 13 Further militarization was threatened during the 2012 election campaign, when former F-FDTL commander and presidential candidate Taur Matan Ruak proposed introducing mandatory ­m ilitary service for males and females over the age of 18. To date, nothing has come of this proposal. 14 In 1984, Mauk Moruk had been involved in a struggle over leadership of the resistance but came out on the losing end and surrendered, eventually making his way into exile. 15 Several of the foreign judges were also due to hear cases concerning corruption by high-ranking government officials and taxes owed by foreign oil companies operating in the Timor Sea. See Leach (2014).

References Asia Foundation. (2014). ‘Timor-Leste public opinion poll’. Posted at http://asiafoundation.org/­ resources/pdfs/PublicOpinionPollResultsMarch2014ENGLISH.pdf. Asia Foundation. (2015). ‘A survey of community-police perceptions in Timor-Leste 2015: Summary’. Posted at http://asiafoundation.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Summary-CPP-2015-English.pdf.

44

Gusmão’s ruling strategy Blunt, Peter. (2009). ‘The political-economy of accountability in Timor-Leste: Implications for public policy’, Public Administration and Development, 29(2): 89–100. Cleary, Paul. (2015). ‘Peace in East Timor at cost of economic dignity’, The Australian, February 7. Cotton, James. (2005). ‘East Timor in 2004: It is all about oil’, Asian Survey, 45(1): 186–190. Cotton, James. (2007). ‘Timor-Leste and the discourse of state failure’, Australian Journal of International Affairs, 61(4): 455–470. Diário Nasional, April 1, 2010. Feijó, Rui (2009). Elections and the social dimensions of democracy, in Christine cabasset-Semedo and Frederic Durand. (eds.). Timor-leste: how to build a new nation in Southeast Asia in the 21st century, pp. 123–138.  Bangkok: IRASEC. Feijó, Rui Graça. (2016). Dynamics of democracy in Timor-Leste: The birth of a democratic nation, 1999–2012, Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press. Goldstone, Anthony. (2012). ‘Building a state and ‘state-building’: East Timor and the UN, 1999–2012’, unpublished manuscript. Gramsci, Antonio. (1971). Selections from the prison notebooks, Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey NowellSmith (eds.), New York: International Publishers. International Crisis Group. (2006). ‘Resolving Timor-Leste’s crisis’, Dili/Brussels: Asia Report No. 120. International Crisis Group. (2011). ‘Timor-Leste’s veterans: An unfinished struggle’, Dili/Brussels: Asia Briefing No. 129. International Crisis Group. (2013). ‘Timor-Leste: Stability at What Cost?’, Asia Report N°246, Dili/ Brussels, https://d2071andvip0wj.cloudfront.net/timor-leste-stability-at-what-cost.pdf Jakarta Post, ‘Timor-Leste’s potential still out of reach’, November 25, 2012. Kammen, Douglas. (2010). ‘Subordinating Timor: Central authority and the origin of identities in East Timor’, Bijdragen tot de Tal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 166(2/3): 244–269. Kingsbury, Damian. (2017). ‘Is East Timor run by a ‘stable’ govt or conspiratorial oligarchy’, dated ­January 27, 2017. Posted at https://blogs.deakin.edu.au/deakin-speaking/2017/01/27/is-easttimor-run-by-a-stable-govt-or-conspiratorial-oligarchy/ (accessed February 11, 2017). Leach, Michael. (2009). ‘The 2007 presidential and parliamentary elections in Timor-Leste’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, 55(2): 219–232. Leach, Michael. (2014). ‘East Timor removes international judges’, Media Interview, ABC The World Today, http://abc.net.au/worldtoday/content/2014/s4115300.htm Mendes, Pedro Rosa. (2008). ‘Timor-Leste: The unsustainable island’, Publico, 25 November. Posted at http://jornal.publico.clix.pt/main.asp?dt=20081125&id. Moxham, Ben. (2008). ‘State-making and the post-conflict city: Integration in Dili, disintegration in Timor-Leste’, Crisis States Working Papers, no. 2. Murdoch, Lindsay. (2008). ‘Timor collides with its future’, The Sydney Morning Herald, November 22. Neves, Guteriano Nicolau Soares. (2013). ‘Timor-Leste: The political economy of a rentier state’, ­presented at Timor-Leste Studies Association. Posted at www.laohamutuk.org/econ/model/ NevesPoliticalRentierTLSA2013.pdf. Scambary, James. (2009). ‘Anatomy of a conflict: The 2006–2007 communal violence in East Timor’, Conflict, Security & Development, 9(2): 265–288. Scambary, James. (2015). ‘In search of white elephants: The political economy of resource income expenditure in East Timor’, Critical Asian Studies, 47(2): 283–308. Scheiner, Charlie. (2014). ‘Can the petroleum fund exorcise the resource curse from Timor-Leste’. Posted at www.laohamutuk.org/econ/exor/14ExorcisePaper.htm. Shoesmith, Dennis. (2003). ‘Timor-Leste: Divided leadership in a semi-presidential system’, Asian Survey, 43(2): 231–252. Simonsen, Sven Gunnar. (2006). ‘The authoritarian temptation in East Timor: Nationbuilding and the need for inclusive governance’, Asian Survey, 46(4): 575–596. Sydney Morning Herald, November 22, 2008. Sydney Morning Herald, March 15, 2012. Timor Post, May 7, 2010.

45

4 SHIFTING GROUND Flexible alliances and generational change in post-independence politics Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

Introduction A key ambivalence that informs Timorese politics after independence relates to the heritage of the resistance struggle and its significance in relation to political authority. Leaders of the country’s first political administrations gained legitimacy first and foremost on the basis of their resistance credentials. References to the resistance struggle against Indonesia and its symbols and sacrifices continue to play a role in electoral politics. At the same time, however, the extent to which the heritage of the resistance can legitimately be appropriated for political gains has been contested. In the first decade of independence, former resistance leaders who continued in formal political positions after independence were often accused of opportunism; of exploiting their positions for personal gains, of having betrayed resistance ideals of national unity with multiparty competition, and of having distanced themselves from the ordinary people who helped bring them into power. Across the political spectrum, however, there remains an inability to imagine a political landscape without the influence of senior political leaders associated with the resistance, whether those who steered activities on the diplomatic front from exile abroad, or those who led the armed resistance within then Indonesian-occupied East Timor. What has this centrality of the resistance and its senior leadership in narratives about East Timorese national identity and political authority meant for younger leaders trying to establish themselves politically? In seeking to answer this question, this chapter focuses primarily on the geração foun (Tetum: new generation), a reference to the younger and typically Indonesian-educated generation of leaders whose upbringings and political ideas differ from those of their s­ enior counterparts. Their different trajectories and experiences of colonialism and occupation ­continue to inform the political orientations of the two generations, and at times create f­riction between them. The turning point of the chapter is the idea of a ‘generational change’, a recurring theme in Timorese politics and government critiques after independence and which refers to popular calls for a shift in the political power balance in favour of the g­ eração foun. So far, although new youth-associated parties have emerged, voting patterns have meant that the realisation of such a shift remains in suspense. Younger leaders and youth-­a ssociated parties thus represent a bridge between the generations rather than a complete shift in the political power balance. 46

Shifting ground

Timorese politics and its relations, loyalties, rivalries, heroes and villains, shift at a fast pace. Three different governments have been in place since the first notes for this ­chapter were drafted in 2017 and until its completion in 2018. Developments during and in between the two elections held in 2017 and 2018 have once again remapped political alliances, ­including between senior and younger leaders. During the first decade of independence at least, international democracy promoters were fond of saying that Timorese politics were driven by alliances and rivalries stemming back from the 1970s, when the first political parties were formed (see Nygaard-Christensen 2017). Whilst resistance-era and indeed early independence movement politics remain reference points in contemporary politics, this view implies that if one has a grasp of how such alliances are structured, one will better understand the dynamics of Timorese politics. This chapter stresses in contrast that such alliances are far from static. Hence, instead of making conclusions about the relation between senior and younger leaders or between youth-associated parties and the ­dominant parties of the National Congress for Timorese Reconstruction (Congresso Nacional de ­Reconstrução de Timor – CNRT) and Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor (Frente ­Revolucionária de  Timor-Leste Independente – FRETILIN), the chapter is concerned with the ways in which younger leaders have typically moved between positions of loyalty and opposition to the senior political elite. The chapter begins with an examination of how different experiences of colonialism and occupation contributed to the formation of differing intellectual backgrounds and political aspirations of the two generations. It further examines how the centrality of the resistance in East Timorese politics as well as growing elite consensus in the first decade after independence undermined the conditions for a ‘generational change’ to take place. Finally, it is ­explored how the emphasis on large-scale, petroleum-funded infrastructure projects promoted by previous governments – particularly since 2007 – has both informed and limited political imaginaries and possibilities for younger generations of leaders. The chapter draws on fieldwork carried out by both authors over more than a decade on East Timorese politics, including interviews conducted with leaders of a newly established political party, the People’s Liberation Party (Partidu Libertasaun Popular – PLP). The PLP was led by younger political leaders and competed for the first time in the 2017 parliamentary elections. Following new elections held in 2018, the party entered government as part of the Alliance for Change and Progress (Aliança de Mudança para o Progresso – AMP) along with the CNRT and another youth-associated party Enrich the National Unity of the Sons of Timor-Leste (Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan – KHUNTO). The alliance secured 49.6% of votes, thus landing 34 of 65 seats in parliament.

Background: origins of the generational divide After Timor-Leste’s separation from Indonesia in 1999, the political elite was dominated by former resistance leaders who frontiered the diplomatic and armed struggle against ­In­donesian occupation. The most prominent leaders were those who had taken part in the formation of political parties in the 1970s in the twilight years of Portuguese colonial rule. Three key players emerged in these developments. They included José Ramos-Horta, ­co-founder of FRETILIN, who would come to spend the occupation years exiled abroad. Kay Rala ‘Xanana’ Gusmão, who became leader of FRETILIN’s armed wing Armed Forces for the National Liberation of Timor-Leste (Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste/– FALINTIL) and was later captured and imprisoned in Indonesia; and Mari Bin Amude Alkatiri, another co-founder of FRETILIN who was exiled in Mozambique 47

Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

and Angola. During the Indonesian occupation, this cohort of leaders continued the struggle for an independent Timorese nation, either as part of the armed resistance or, in the case of leaders such as Ramos-Horta and Alkatiri, in the diplomatic front abroad. Within Indonesian-occupied Timor and Indonesia itself, the armed resistance was supported by a clandestine network of younger supporters who aided senior leaders in activities such as smuggling information in and out of resistance strongholds and to international human rights and activist organisations. It was the senior group of leaders, however, along with other returned exiles and former resistance fighters who came to form what is now known as the 1975-generation of leaders, who have dominated the political scene since independence. The 1975-generation came of age during a dynamic period when Portugal went through a process of decolonisation sparked by its so-called Carnation Revolution that effectively delivered Portugal from authoritarianism to a democracy. The Portuguese-educated elite was able to gain power when the United Nations handed over sovereign power to East ­Timorese leaders in 2002. The senior generation managed to ‘capture the state’ (Alavi 1973) because they fitted the political model envisioned by the international community, particularly by the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor that were charged with administering the transition to democracy, and the Portuguese-educated elite had the management experience to support such a role. The older generation had easily recognisable, manageable, and organised political parties and were experienced leaders, having led the resistance struggle from abroad during the 24 years of occupation. These units were considered the ‘local political counterparts’ that the United Nations was so keenly looking for, to fit its existing operational models (Federer 2005). The 1975-generation of leaders is popularly distinguished from a younger generation of leaders, the geração foun. The cohort of Timorese born in the years following the ­I ndonesian invasion in 1975 experienced life and the world differently from their parents. They came of age during the Indonesian New Order (1966–1998) occupation of Timor between 1976 and 1998. Many amongst the geração foun were raised within the clandestine resistance movement where a culture of militaristic hierarchy existed. In the later years of the resistance, young Timorese became crucial in the clandestine front, but after independence, the diplomatic front and the FALINTIL armed front retained dominant legitimacy. An exception to this was the Democratic Party (Partido Democrático; henceforth PD), formed by Indonesian-educated youth and included in several government coalitions, most recently in a FRETILIN-PD minority government formed after the 2017 national elections, which only stayed in power until new elections were held in 2018. Whilst PD has thereby successfully established itself as a key player in the post-­ independence political landscape, the capacity of its leaders to take part in decision-­ making processes hinged on their ability to establish alliances with the two major parties that controlled the post-independence political agenda: CNRT and FRETILIN. As we will demonstrate, their experience mirrors those of more recently formed political parties associated with the Timorese youth. This tendency arguably continues the asymmetrical power relations that developed between younger and senior leaders during the resistance. As we have written elsewhere, clandestine resistance activities groomed a generation of politically engaged youth, but it did not prepare younger leaders for independent decision-making due to the strong top-down hierarchical character of resistance leadership, whereby younger leaders awaited directions from the senior leadership (Bexley and Nygaard-Christensen 2014; ­Bexley and Tchailoro 2013). 48

Shifting ground

The political awakening of the younger generation was not exclusively formed by the East Timorese resistance struggle. It also developed alongside the Indonesian pro-­democracy movement that eventually contributed to the downfall of Indonesia’s President Suharto and thus also the events that enabled the conditions for the 1999 Timorese independence referendum. After independence, in spite of their contributions to the resistance struggle, a sense of marginalisation amongst many young Timorese was compounded by the fact that an older generation with a different cultural orientation reclaimed the government, and the political imaginary of Timor-Leste’s future. The 1975-generation pushed for Portuguese to be adopted as the country’s official language, thereby maximising their own advantage and purchase on the nation through the creation of a linguistic barrier. In addition to putting the Portuguese heritage at the centre of official narratives about national identity and belonging, the place of Indonesian language in education was not acknowledged amongst the older generation of leaders, despite its continuing use in education. Elsewhere, Angie Bexley has described the resulting sense of marginalisation of the Indonesian-educated younger elite: The geracão foun were pejoratively dubbed the generasi supermi (the supermi generation) by the older generation of leaders. Supermi is an iconic Indonesian brand of instant ­noodles and the metaphorical label suggests that they are soft like noodles; they lack strength and wisdom; they have an “instan” attitude toward life; and do not possess strong morals or leadership qualities to take part in high-level decision-making. (2007: 288) This depiction of the younger generation and their experiences undermined their legitimacy by questioning their identification with official Portuguese-oriented and resistance-focused perception of East Timorese national identity and in effect helped to block or at least limited their access to decision-making arenas (Bexley 2009). In this way, Timor-Leste’s two former occupiers, Portugal and Indonesia, map onto a generational, political division between the 1975-generation and a younger, Indonesian-educated generation. This generational divide can further be said to roughly map onto some of the main political parties, with ­F RETILIN and CNRT primarily associated with the senior leadership, whilst parties such as PD, ­K HUNTO, and PLP linked to a younger generation of leaders.

The scent of a national leader In spite of the valorisation of the resistance in both popular and official narratives of national identity, perceptions about the position former resistance leaders should occupy after independence have not been univocal. Instead, their influence in political life has long been a source of contest and ambivalence amongst East Timorese voters. This tension came to a head at the time of the political crisis of 2006–2007. Domestically, as well as in external commentaries and in the aid sector, the crisis was largely attributed to a failure of political leadership. The aid community in Dili responded with numerous development programmes aimed at supporting and building ‘leadership capacity’ and thus largely identified the roots of the crisis as internally created. However, just as the crisis was understood as arising out of leadership shortcomings, its solution was likewise seen as resting with the election of specific (senior) leaders who could steer the country out of crisis. Indeed, the election of José Ramos-Horta as President and the formation of a coalition government headed by Xanana Gusmão as Prime Minister led international commentators and aid workers to argue that the country stood the best chance to emerge from the crisis under their leadership (for an example of this discourse, see Nygaard-Christensen 2012). 49

Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

Within Timor-Leste, the crisis was likewise perceived as produced by the senior political leadership, on the basis of their transition to formal political positions after independence, and due to political infighting. However, popular commentaries were highly ambivalent about the role former resistance leaders should play in political life. A focus group interview conducted by Maj Nygaard-Christensen with community leaders in Lautem in 2007 captures this ambivalence as it was debated in the late crisis months: João: Xanana… He was the one who united the nation. Justino: He was the father of the nation. Francisco: Ah, his very name had a sweet scent (Indonesian: harum) to it… Justino:  The name Xanana… it wouldn’t matter where you heard it, you’d feel happy.

Now it isn’t like that anymore. But during the resistance… Ayye… his name was like sweet scent. Xanana, sometimes he was the only one who continued to believe that Timor could achieve independence. Ah, In Los Palos, there were so many songs about his name. Francisco:  X anana, first he was a friend, now he has already become an enemy ­(Indonesian: musuh), because he follows politics (Indonesian: ikut politik). He said he would continue to be a national hero (Indonesian: pahlawan), but now that is coming back to him. The four of them [Xanana, Alkatiri, Horta and Belo], now they could unite the people. João:  The crisis; that is the important people (Indonesian: orang penting) who are playing, not the small people (Indonesian: orang kecil). Similar to these politically engaged community leaders, many others in Timor-Leste r­ eferenced the promises resistance leaders made during the occupation years that they would never take up formal political positions. Indeed, leaders’ betrayals of such promises were viewed by voters as a key factor leading to the 2006 crisis. Voters in the 2007 parliamentary election highlighted how resistance ideals of national unity had been put to the test with the establishment of competing political parties after independence. Symbolic of this development was the post-2007 crisis establishment of the political party CNRT, which had appropriated the acronym and logo of the former highly popular CNRT. The latter was established as an umbrella organisation during the resistance to create unity and erase differences between political figures and institutions with the aim of presenting a united front in the struggle for independence. During the focus group interview cited above, one of the men went into his house to fetch a drawing of the CNRT flag produced during the late resistance years, pointed to it and said, ‘this, this was already sacred’ (Tetum: lulik), in reference to its new re-emergence as a political party logo. The appropriation of the mythical symbolism of CNRT for political gains, and thereby as a source of competition with other political parties, produced considerable political anxiety in an environment where party differences had long been associated with political conflict. When asked what they thought would happen if Xanana was to leave politics, the community leaders continued: Francisco: Oh then the country could become safe and calm quickly. Justino: If he doesn’t, where will this country be headed to? João: They [the leaders] are not allowed to get involved with one party. Justino: No, they can’t do that. They have to be independent. Joao: Their ambitions are high. They just want to find money. Francisco:  They [national leaders] have to remove themselves from the parties; leave

them… 50

Shifting ground

In spite of their stated hopes that resistance leaders leave the political scene, such critiques were not clear-cut. On the one hand, many viewed the 2006 crisis as resulting from the political infighting that followed when leaders formerly united in the struggle for independence went on to become competitors in a multiparty political system. On the other, even those who expressed such critiques remained unable to imagine a political scene without their influence, a tendency that continues until today. The community leaders cited above were vocal and enthusiastic FRETILIN supporters, and based their support to the party on the party’s contributions to the resistance and, as seen above, often spoke nostalgically and warmly about the role played by Xanana during the resistance. Hence, like many others, they envisioned the establishment of a council of elders (Tetum: Conselho dos Katuas) ­consisting of leaders such as Xanana Gusmão, Mari Alkatiri, and José Ramos-Horta who would ‘sit back’ and provide direction and guidance to younger leaders, without holding formal political office. Such a council has never been formally established. However, the idea has been sustained through a series of ‘historical leaders meetings’ held by key senior leaders in 2008–2010 (Leach and Kingsbury 2012: 21) and has repeatedly been discussed as a way of enabling a gradual transition of political power to younger leaders to take place. Such an option again contributes to the notion that political decision-making requires the aura and political inputs of senior leaders. In the years beyond independence, this generational divide has both deepened and become more complex. The geração foun increasingly became prominent critics who often voiced opposition to government policies, particularly on issues relating to freedom of speech and development issues. However, fear of repercussion from the senior, established political elite also resulted in a form of self-censorship amongst the younger generation. This has been evident in the case of Xanana Gusmão, whose mythical power and authority was built on his charismatic and persistent command of the resistance. During his previous government tenure, few dared criticise him or other senior leaders openly, nor raise the vexed issue of the generational power relations outlined above (Bexley and Nygaard-Christensen 2014). This tendency has not significantly changed over the years, even as greater numbers of the younger generation of former government-critic activists have entered into government, including as ministers and parliamentarians.

Consensus politics: challenging the status quo Popular understandings of political legitimacy as resting on charismatic, senior (and, most often, male) resistance leadership continue to present barriers to aspiring younger leaders. Moreover, parties such as PLP have faced the challenge of how to recreate the conditions for a functioning opposition. This was made increasingly difficult during the span of collaboration or ‘consensus politics’ between CNRT and FRETILIN between 2013 and 2017. The relationship between the two parties had previously been shaped by the fraught relations between their respective leaders, Xanana Gusmão and Mari Alkatiri. The latter resigned as Prime Minister in 2006, following allegations that he knew about civilians being armed with illegal weapons by then Minister of the Interior, Rogerio Lobato, and calls that he take political responsibility for the crisis. Relations between FRETILIN and Gusmão worsened further in the aftermath of the 2007 parliamentary elections, when CNRT formed a coalition government, Parliamentary Majority Alliance (AMP), with other parties, leaving out FRETILIN. Although CNRT had a majority with their coalition partners, this was viewed as highly controversial by FRETILIN leaders and supporters, because the party had secured the highest number of votes. Hence, FRETILIN initially set itself up in the role of 51

Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

a critical opposition that frequently challenged the politics of what its leaders referred to as the ­‘unconstitutional’ or ‘de facto’ AMP government, with reference to the fact that CNRT had obtained a smaller proportion of votes than FRETILIN. In spite of these controversies, after 2013, FRETILIN and CNRT increasingly came together, leading to what was referred to as the new ‘consensus politics’ (Tetum: Konsensu politiku). Illustrative of this shift was Gusmão’s appointment of Mari Alkatiri to lead the S­ pecial Economic and Social Market Zone (Zona Especial de Economia Social de Mercado; henceforth ZEESM) in Oecussi. Further examples were his 2015 appointment of ­F RETILIN’s Rui ­Maria de Araújo to replace him as Prime Minister as well as the inclusion of other ­F RETILIN members in the political administration that followed Gusmão’s withdrawal as Prime Minister. Gusmão’s support of Francisco ‘Lu Olu’ Guterres, a leading FRETILIN profile who won the 2017 presidential election – was viewed in the same light. With these developments, FRETILIN gained increased political influence after its initial 2007 exclusion from government when their inputs were ‘often written off as opposition and overruled by the majority coalition’ (Valters, Dewhurst and de Catheu 2015: 24). The 2017 national elections further tipped this balance in favour of FRETILIN, which was able to form the seventh government alongside the PD. The consensus between FRETILIN and CNRT responded to popular understandings that political unity works as a guarantor of stability. However, a side effect of these stabilised relations between senior political leaders was the erasure of an effective opposition that could challenge government policies and public spending. Whilst Timor-Leste’s vibrant civil society in some ways fulfilled this role, their influence decreased alongside dwindling external donor support to local non-governmental organisations. For many younger leaders, the growing collaboration between CNRT and FRETILIN leaders was viewed as based on Gusmão’s attempt to continue to dominate the political scene, in spite of his exit from the prime-­m inisterial position. His withdrawal from the seat as Prime Minister was pointed to by some, and indeed by Gusmão himself, as a first move in the direction of a leadership transition, but others viewed it as a way of securing continued political influence. As one Timorese policy researcher noted with reference to Gusmão’s 2017 election support of ­Fransisco ‘Lu Olo’ Guterres and the CNRT-initiated megaprojects that are critically evaluated by civil society representatives as detrimental to long-term, sustainable development goals: Obviously Lu Olu will continue to support these projects. He will not challenge these projects. And that is the reason why Xanana supported Lu Olo. He wants a president who will not challenge the strategic development plan, and Tasi Mane (one of these projects) is the centre of the strategic development plan. (Interview with Angie Bexley, 4 May 2017) In this way, aspiring younger leaders trying to establish themselves politically in the first one and a half decades of independence, came up against an increasingly united senior political leadership. The leader appointed in 2015 to succeed Xanana Gusmão as Prime Minister, Rui Maria de Araújo, was perceived as a representative of the geração foun. Hence, his appointment as Prime Minister was portrayed as a first move towards a generational change, but overall, these appointments have been directed by the older generation. With Gusmão’s subsequent role as Minister for Strategic Planning and Investment, he continued to exert control over infrastructure and development projects, two areas that take up substantial portions of the state budget (see Lao Hamutuk 2017). Interestingly, younger leaders interviewed during research for this chapter prior to the 2017 national elections, continued 52

Shifting ground

to refer to Xanana Gusmão, rather than (then Prime Minister) de Araújo, as the government leader. Hence, despite some positions of authority being granted to the young generation, real power continues to reside with the older generation. Furthermore, the younger generation has struggled to articulate and mobilise effective opposition, or an alternative concept of power. Today, the younger generation of leaders can no longer be dismissed as the ­‘Supermi Generation’. Following independence, many of those now trying to establish ­t hemselves politically have pursued education opportunities abroad, and returned with degrees from Australia, New Zealand, Hawaii, the United Kingdom and elsewhere. This includes members of PLP, which, in addition to a number of veterans, is driven by young intellectuals who returned to Timor-Leste from overseas with graduate degrees. The interim ­P resident of PLP, Adérito Soares is undertaking a PhD at the Australian National University. ­Moreover, many have professional experience and are well versed in budget planning and policymaking, amongst others as researchers and civil society members. However, this has not stopped senior political leaders from questioning their ability to lead the country. With reference to Gusmão reportedly saying that the country was still not ready for a transition of political power to the young generation, Adérito Soares commented: I think that really they are creating a fiction of geracão foun and geracão tuan (the old ­generation) in order to justify the status quo and I think that is very unhealthy for the country. And to be frank I am a bit disappointed to see that. And I feel a bit demoralised to see that kind of statement from a very respected leader. I think that is a bit ­demoralising for many young people. He says that geracão foun is too mamuk, too empty. That is really insulting. (Interview with Angie Bexley, 4 May 2017) The consensus approach was viewed as problematic by emerging younger leaders not only because it was detrimental to their own potential entry into political life but also because it was seen as symptomatic of an increasing concentration of power into a few individuals. As commented by a Timorese researcher prior to the 2017 national elections, It is important that Timor-Leste maintains a power separation. There is an effort to control the whole institution into the hands of one person. But as a Timorese I also think we need to be very critical about how to vote in this election. Whether this election will result in a balance of power or whether it will result in a concentration of power, which at least will paralyse the democratic institutions in Timor-Leste, and that becomes a very strong battle, I think, that is going on right now. What we are seeing in Timor-Leste is an effort to challenge the very notion of power, the separation of power… We can see (this) in the way public resources are allocated, the way the budget is structured, the way infrastructure projects are concentrated. (Interview with Angie Bexley, 6 April 2017) The consensus politics described above presented a challenge to aspiring younger leaders who were sometimes hesitant to risk potential controversies with senior political leaders. It was indicative for the great majority of younger leaders interviewed during our research that they avoided naming their opponents or otherwise challenged the course of political ­decision-making, although they were skilled at doing so in more abstract terms. 53

Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

Power transfer or political realignment? Amongst the key themes raised by media and analysts in the lead up to the 2017 national elections was the question of a generational change and whether Timor-Leste was ready for a party without the charismatic old-guard leadership as the driving force of party politics. ­A fter months of negotiation, a FRETILIN-PD minority government was sworn in to Government on 23 September 2017, with Mari Alkatiri as returning Prime Minister. This marked a break with the previous decade of a power-sharing CNRT-led government and took many commentators who predicted a continued and perhaps strengthened ­FRETILIN-CNRT union by surprise. In addition, the two new youth-driven parties of PLP and KHUNTO made their ­ RETILIN to form entry into the parliament. KHUNTO was initially in negotiations with F government. However, at the very last minute, the party withdrew from the s­ wearing-in ceremony of the new government, reportedly because they did not secure the ministerial positions they were seeking (Leach 2017). Both PLP and KHUNTO appeal to different segments of the younger population. PLP was formed in 2015 by a group of younger intellectuals, also drawing on support from veterans and with the backing of Taur Matan Ruak, former armed resistance leader and President of the Republic between 2012 and 2017, who stood down in 2017 to run on the PLP ticket. The party draws on a group of younger leaders educated abroad after independence and is envisioned by its leaders as a party representing a new future, constituted of younger leaders. However, its additional b­ acking by veterans and Taur Matan Ruak suggests that it more accurately represents a bridge b­ etween the generations. Nevertheless, the party is driven by younger elites and academics, many of whom have pursued education opportunities abroad after independence and who are highly passionate about participating as agents of change in their home country (for  an account of this, see Neves 2017). In the run-up to elections in 2017, PLP positioned itself as an ‘issues-based’ party and thus differentiated itself from the main parties of FRETILIN and CNRT. The latter two continued to rely on their electoral appeal and political relationships by referencing the resistance struggle of the past, and the personalities and charisma of leaders that represent this era. In contrast, PLP presented itself as a party of the future, interested in issues of sustainable development, equality, and justice for generations to come. The notion of a ‘generational change’ or power transfer to the younger generation wrongly indicates that younger leaders form their own political ‘block’, in opposition to their senior counterparts. Calls for a generational change have, however, supported youth-associated leadership as its own kind of legitimacy, but at the same time, youthdriven parties are characterised by their own differences, and often end up liaising with resistance-era parties and leaders. Whilst PLP is driven by individuals amongst the educated and politically experienced elite, KHUNTO ran on a platform that appealed to the younger, disaffected, and unemployed youth. The party thereby speaks to a proportion of the population that has so far presented a problem to decision-makers rather than a political voice in their own right, due to the association between unemployed (male) youth and gang violence and post-­independence ­socio-political disruption. Indeed, the party is associated with the martial arts group KORKA (Kmanek Oan Rai Klaran / Great Sons of the Land), which in the past has also been connected with FRETILIN. Some commentators suggested that the issues-based campaigns of the 2017 elections meant that the independence struggle was outdated as a model for political legitimacy. However, without polling constituents, an ­ HUNTO could be the strength of the symbolism equally valid reason for voters choosing K and masculinity of their campaign, based itself on the relics of the past, and suggesting more of a continuum with the past than some commentators have suggested. 54

Shifting ground

So far, the tendency for youth-associated parties has been to line up with the major parties of either FRETILIN or CNRT. In the first one and a half decades after independence, alliances between parties and individuals have been highly unstable. The consensus between FRETILIN and CNRT described above, which marked the years leading up to the 2017 national elections, would have seemed unimaginable a decade earlier. In an earlier version of this chapter, written prior to the 2018 elections, we wrote that although PLP entered into electoral competition by presenting itself as an alternative to the infrastructure and ­construction-focused development path prioritised by previous CNRT-led governments in the past, they might enter tactics if such an approach hinders its political influence. Indeed, only weeks after the government formation, PLP along with KHUNTO and CNRT challenged the government and aired the possibility of forming an alternative government alliance (Murdoch 2017). With the government unable to pass its programme and budget, new elections were announced in early 2018. The parliamentary election was held in May that year and secured the CNRT-KHUNTO-PLP ‘AMP alliance’ the government term. This underlines the flexibility and instability of Timorese political alliances, which are far from fixed but often radically remade both during and particularly in between elections. As the new AMP alliance demonstrates, a tendency for youth-associated parties and leaders so far, however, has been that their influence has depended on their ability to establish alliances with the leading parties of either FRETILIN or CNRT. This means that such would-be opponents potentially end up forming part of a political system in which the two leading parties and their policy priorities are never thoroughly challenged.

Competing development scenarios The challenge of a ‘generational change’ in Timor-Leste is not only one of having the younger generation of leaders take over from former resistance leaders. As illustrated above, the centrality of the resistance in ideas about East Timorese national identity narrowed ­opportunities to develop alternative sources of political legitimacy. In addition, development visions formulated by the senior elites during past political administrations – and, in part, even prior to independence – further limited opportunities for a younger g­ eneration of leaders and others to promote alternative and competing visions for the country. This holds especially true for the current ruling elite’s emphasis on petroleum-fuelled and c­ onstruction-focused ‘big development’. Whereas the first FRETILIN-led government from 2002 to 2006, sought to ­prioritise long-term development goals and aimed for a slow spending of petroleum revenues (ICG  2013:  2), subsequent administrations gained popular support by promoting construction ventures that promised to transform the country into an urbanised, modern nation. CNRT’s launch as a political party in 2007 by Xanana Gusmão was followed by a ­parliamentary campaign which featured high-modernist, spectacular images of buildings such as skyscrapers and airports, referred to domestically as the ‘Singapore Houses’ (Tetum: Uma Singapore). After CNRT’s subsequent 2007 entry into government, large-scale building projects ensued in the capital Dili. The building boom centred on Dili and thus prioritised urban development and infrastructure projects in the capital. According to a 2013 report by the International Crisis Group, over half of the state budget in preceding years had been allocated to construction, in spite of questionable results, and seemingly at the expense of sectors such as education and health (ICG 2013: ii). CNRT remained in power after the 2012 elections in another coalition government, after which the emphasis on construction-led ­development was expanded with additional plans targeting the country’s outermost areas. 55

Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

Two major projects were allocated substantial funding: the high-profile Tasi Mane petroleum infrastructure project on the south coast and the above-mentioned ZEESM in the long-neglected, hard-to-reach enclave of Oecussi. The focus on construction-led development has moved critics to warn of the tendency to award contracts to veterans from the resistance struggle as a way of ‘buying the peace’; that is, of demobilising dissatisfied members of this group who in the past have presented security threats to the young nation (Valters et al. 2015; ICG 2011). Government cash transfers and contracts awarded to potential disruptors have been credited with having contributed to the establishment of peace, but is questionable as a sustainable approach. According to Valters et al. (2015: 26), cash transfers to veterans constituted 40% of all social security payments, thus outweighing health and education budget allocations. Veterans also feature in the ­g rowing patronage circles of the elite and have been favoured in statefunded projects; Valters et al. note how in 2010, rice and electricity distribution agreements were amongst the 68 contracts granted to veterans in 2010 (Valters et al. 2015: 27). This approach, whilst domestically driven to secure peace, has also done much to embed a sense of entitlement, rather than sustainable and equitable development. The ways in which veterans are included in the development process are a challenge to any successors of Xanana Gusmão (IPAC 2014: 2). As evidenced by Gusmão’s appointment of Mari Alkatiri as the leader of the ZEESM project, a move which cemented FRETILIN’s temporary realignment with CNRT, the focus on construction and infrastructure facilitated a consolidation of power with the senior leadership. This tendency was strengthened by the resulting erasure of a functioning ­parliamentary opposition to hold the government accountable. The way the country’s r­ esource wealth and sustainable development pathways should be managed has thereby constituted one of the major challenges that younger leaders face, if and when a ‘generational change’ occurs. In the run-up to the 2017 elections, PLP took a critical stance towards the megaproject development path pursued by previous governments. As noted by Adérito Soares, There is something really wrong about our conception of development. We are not against infrastructure. But we have to be a little more clear about what kind of ­infrastructure we want. What PLP wants to do is to redefine and rethink our n ­ otion of development in the last 15 years. We are not against development! But what kind of ­development is it that we are pushing for? … Our leaders are infatuated with ­Singaporean scenarios. (Interview with Angie Bexley, 4 May 2017) However, such understandings of development and visions of the country’s future are not promulgated by the political administration alone. As noted by policy analyst Guteriano Neves, the idea of petroleum has ‘captivated the attention’ of East Timorese, at the expense of other, more s­ ustainable development visions.1 Amongst other consequences, the focus on ­petroleum-­fuelled development has constrained the choices that young people make about their futures. I­ ncreasing numbers of students now choose to study geology or other ­m ining-related degrees and courses in Indonesia, despite the decline of oil reserves and the possibility that the sector will possibly not exist within the next decade. Understanding megaprojects as an exclusive government priority and as unequivocally opposed by affected communities thus risks overlooking the degree to which many people have bought into such scenarios. Ethnographic studies have long pointed to the existence of utopian imaginaries in Timor-Leste, and the idea of imminent radical improvement 56

Shifting ground

of livelihoods. For instance, Douglas Kammen has documented how the resistance gave rise to ideas of independence as a place where ‘the state would provide for the population’ (2009: 390), an idea that came into being through promises made by resistance leaders that after ­independence, everyone would live in a ‘white (i.e. modern) house in the city’ (2009: 391) and be ‘free from poverty, unemployment, squalor, hunger, violence’ (2009: 387; for similar examples of resistance-era imaginaries of independence, see Nygaard-­Christensen 2013: 429). Elizabeth Traube’s (2007) analysis of the Tat Felis tradition amongst the Mambai has further demonstrated how such political visions entangle with popular narratives and myths centred on powerful figures with the authority to establish a new, utopian order. Recently initiated megaprojects support these ideas about spectacular development and have nurtured popular expectations about radical transformation instigated by either ­development projects or political initiatives. In this way, Timor-Leste’s natural resource wealth, most notably its petroleum resources, supports popular expectations about future wealth. ­Confirming this observation, Guteriano Neves commented that ‘our fantasies about ­[ petroleum-funded ­development] are rooted in our history of the struggle because before we were told that we were rich in national resources, that we were rich in terms of oil’ (interview with Angie Bexley, April 2017). In other words, the idea about spectacular ‘big development’ is not exclusively government driven, but has also been invested in by local communities, who often see few viable alternatives. This tendency has contributed to undermining support for any alternative forms of development, and the idea of building on already existing skills and knowledge, for instance, in the agricultural sector. One of the key challenges – not only for younger leaders but also for other leaders with visions of alternative development paths for Timor-Leste, will thereby be to make such scenarios appeal to voters. Another will be to hold on to such policy priorities if their political influence continues to depend on parliamentary alliances with the parties that set the agenda in the first years of independence.

Concluding remarks: barriers and opportunities for leadership transition In the 2017 national elections, youth-driven parties such as PLP and KHUNTO came a step closer to gaining political influence. They managed to do so when new elections were held in May 2018 and the parties entered into government with CNRT as part of the AMP alliance. These developments have meant that the conditions for a parliamentary opposition were remade at the time of writing amongst others with FRETILIN and PD in opposition. The growing consensus and alignment between former opponents CNRT and FRETILIN that took form during past political administrations was hailed by some commentators as positive for Timor-Leste’s sometimes fragile security environment. This position was based on the idea that political unity presented a better scenario than the potential of conflict presented by competing political parties. However, this view risks overlooking the fact that the majority of people have not benefited from the urban-centred and megaproject-driven development pathways, or the ways in which a proportion of younger leaders were hesitant to express opposing views. The real challenge, then, is not exclusively about introducing younger leaders into the political scene, but about introducing a new set of political ideas about how to diversify and create more sustainable forms of development and long-term, inclusive growth for Timor-Leste. The shifting allegiances that emerged during past political administrations have ­i llustrated the degree to which Timorese political alliances and rivalries are dynamic relationships. As noted at the beginning of this chapter, East Timorese political crises 57

Maj Nygaard-Christensen and Angie Bexley

and instability have often been portrayed by external commentators and aid workers as stemming from hostilities or networks going back to the resistance years, an understanding that presents an image of such alliances as fixed and resolute. The first decade of independence, however, has shown that leadership alliances and rivalries on the contrary are highly flexible and constantly ­shifting. Such alliances have been destabilised and remade around external factors such as international intervention projects (Nygaard-Christensen 2017) and, more recently, revenue spending, with previously rival leaders coalescing around the control of petroleum-funded infrastructure projects. The leadership divide described in this chapter between senior and younger generation political leaders should similarly not be seen as static. In 2017, PLP entered into electoral politics with the aim of presenting an alternative to the big ­d evelopment-driven agenda of CNRT. Now in government alliance with that party, it remains to be seen whether PLP and KHUNTO will be able to hold on to competing political agendas. The challenges presented to younger leaders are ones that all future political administrations will face. They include questions of how to balance demands for political unity with openness to opposing views, how to prioritise long-term development goals, and how to promote popular support for these objectives.

Note 1 Guteriano Neves at the Visions of the Future conference at Kent University, April 2017.

References Alavi, Hamza. (1972). ‘The State in Postcolonial Societies: Pakistan and Bangladesh’. In Imperialism and Revolution in South Asia, K. Gough and H. P. Sharma (eds.), pp. 134–155. New York: Monthly Review Press. Bexley, Angie. (2009). Youth at the Crossroads: The Politics of Identity and Belonging in Timor Leste. ­Unpublished PhD thesis. Australian National University. Bexley, Angie and Nygaard-Christensen, Maj. (2014). ‘The Lost Leadership of Timor Leste’, New ­Mandala. Accessed 8 June at New Mandala: www.newmandala.org/the-lost-leadership-of-timor-leste/. Bexley, Angie and Tchailoro, Nuno Rodrigues. (2013). ‘Consuming Youth: Timorese Youth in the Resistance against Indonesia’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 14(5): 405–422. Federer, Juan. (2005). The UN in East Timor: Building Timor Leste, a Fragile State. Darwin: Charles Darwin University Press. ICG. (2011). ‘Timor-Leste’s Veterans: An Unfinished Struggle?’ Dili/Jakarta Brussels: International Crisis Group report no 129. Accessed 22 September 2017 at International Crisis Group: https:// d2071andvip0wj.cloudfront.net/b129-timor-leste-s-veterans-an-unfinished-struggle.pdf. ICG. (2013). ‘Timor-Leste: Stability at What Cost?’ Brussels: International Crisis Group report no 246. Accessed 9 June at International Crisis Group: https://d2071andvip0wj.cloudfront.net/timorleste-stability-at-what-cost.pdf. IPAC. (2014). ‘Understanding Timor-Leste after Xanana Gusmao’, IPAC report no. 12. Accessed 8 June 2017 at IPAC: http://file.understandingconflict.org/file/2014/07/IPAC_12_TL_After_­ Xanana.pdf. Kammen, Douglas. (2009). ‘Fragments of Utopia: Popular Yearnings in East Timor’, Journal of S ­ outheast Asian Studies, 40: 385–408. Lao Hamutuk. (2017). ‘2017 General State Budget’. Accessed 8 June 2017 at Lao Hamutuk: www. laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/16OGE17.htm. Leach, Michael. (2017). ‘Timor Leste Heads for Minority Government’. Accessed 23 September: www.lowyinstitute.org/the-interpreter/timor-leste-minority-government. Leach, Michael and Kingsbury, Damien. (2013). ‘Introduction: East Timorese Politics in Transition’. In The Politics of Timor-Leste: Democratic Consolidation After Intervention, M. Leach and D. Kingsbury (eds.), pp. 1–24, Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

58

Shifting ground Murdoch, Lindsay. (2017). ‘East Timor’s Opposition Threaten Newly Sworn-in Minority ­Government’, The Sydney Morning Herald, October 7 2017. Accessed 9 October 2017 at: www.smh.com.au/world/ east-timors-opposition-threaten-newly-swornin-minority-government-20171007-­g yw8cv.html. Neves, Guteriano. (2017). ‘Research as Engaged Citizenship’. In Fieldwork in Timor-Leste: Understanding Social Change Through Practice, M. Nygaard-Christensen and A. Bexley (eds.), pp. 208–226. ­Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Nygaard-Christensen, Maj. (2012). ‘The Rebel and the Diplomat: Revolutionary Spirits, Sacred ­L egitimation, and Democracy in Timor-Leste’. In Varieties of Secularism in Asia: Anthropological ­E xplorations of Religion, Politics and the Spiritual, N. O. Bubandt and M. van Beek (eds.), pp. 209–229. London: Routledge. Nygaard-Christensen, Maj. (2017). ‘The UN Document Leak: The Production of Political ­Controversy’. In Fieldwork in Timor-Leste: Understanding Social Change through Practice, M. Nygaard-Christensen and A. Bexley (eds.), pp. 191–207. Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Traube, Elizabeth. (2007). ‘Unpaid Wages: Local Narratives and the Imagination of the Nation’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 8(1): 9–25. Valters, Craig, Dewhurst, Sarah and de Catheu, Juana. (2015). ‘After the Buffaloes Clash: Moving from Political Violence to Personal Security in Timor-Leste’, ODI Case Study report. Accessed 8 June 2017 at Overseas Development Institute: www.odi.org/sites/odi.org.uk/files/odi-assets/­ publications-opinion-files/10322.pdf.

59

5 LISAN, STATE, CHURCH AND COMMUNITY Displacement, syncretism and cohabitation David Hicks One prominent feature of local communities in Timor-Leste today is their diverse procedures for reconciling pressures emanating from three institutions, local tradition (lisan), the State and the Catholic Church. This study describes the more prominent examples of these attempts at reconciliation and their consequences.1 Evangelising by Catholic missionaries began on the island of Timor in the sixteenth century, and today 96.9% of the population of Timor-Leste is declared officially Catholic (NSD/UNPFA 2011: 21), an impressive figure that might be thought to imply that Timor-Leste is a solidly Catholic country. In reality, although the influence of the Church is unquestionable, the identification of local people in their communities as Catholics does not imply their brand of Catholicism necessarily follows the strict teachings of Mother Church. Orthodox creed and local lisan have created a complex mixture of the indigenous and the alien that is usually considered an instance of syncretism. The same may be said of the secular domain of the State. In their recent work on the symbolism of Fataluku funerary monuments, however, Susana Viegas and Rui da Graça Feijó (2017) suggest a new and alternative way of understanding what these material artefacts are ‘saying’ about the relation between lisan, Church and State. This novel perspective they call ‘cohabitation’, and in this article I attempt to demonstrate how this intriguing approach can also be employed to better comprehend the relation between these three institutions in a somewhat wider context than funerary monuments, namely, that of the local community. Fataluku funerary monuments are a tableaux comprised of symbols that represent lisan, Church and State juxtaposed within the same shared physical space. But from Viegas and ­Feijó’s (2017) fresh perspective, instead of melding into a syncretic hybrid, as convention would have it, each institution could be seen maintaining its own identity, even as it ­simultaneously combines with its two partners in furnishing a composite image of three institutions conjoined in a relationship of cohabitation. This image of irenic harmony contradicts the oftentimes mutually exploitive histories of their interaction in local communities and is one that I argue is present in these communities with greater frequency than is generally thought. This is not to say, of course, that there are not numerous instances of the dislocation of lisan by Catholicism or the State or that instances of hybridisation may not be found.2 If the perspective of Viegas and Feijó (2017) is as heuristically fruitful as I believe it to be, one may conclude that, at least some East Timorese today have come to terms with the influences of State, Church and lisan. They have done so by according each their due, whilst 60

Lisan, State, Church and community

at the same time managing to bring them into relation of cohabitation where each institution maintains its own particular and distinctive qualities. My central argument, therefore, is that the insight of Viegas and Feijó (2017) can help us understand how rural Timorese are responding to influences exerted on them by these three most prominent institutions of Timor-Leste and to demonstrate how, at the level of local rural communities, we might comprehend these institutions in a novel way. This is not to say that the three have equal or uniform influence on peoples’ lives; nor that everyone is affected in the same way or to the same degree; but the interest lies in examining the influence they exert differentially on individuals or groups.

Displacement, syncretism and cohabitation The more ancient of these cultural institutions, lisan, has adapted over centuries to the pressures wielded by Church and State.3 But the past four decades have witnessed unparalleled changes, especially those of a political character and the consequences of these changes over time. These changes include processes of (a) displacement, and a more-or-less complete assimilation of lisan into State or Church or even the elimination of certain of its ideologies or practices; (b) a synthesis or hybridisation of some kind; or a form of parallel (c) cohabitation. The first two responses are not mutually exclusive. Law 5/2004 (Anon 2004),4 approved by the National Parliament, for example, and by now impressed upon the socio-political ­structures of local communities by the central government, has been accepted, but the manner in which local communities have interpreted the mandate has, in varying degrees, undermined its purpose. Thus, whilst response (a) has been accepted as a normative model, it is option (b) or (c) that has been effectuated. Indeed, given the centuries-long presence of foreign influences, the degrees of syncretism could hardly be avoided; so much so that the autochthonous nature of some supposedly autochthonous institutions is doubtful. One instance of syncretism is the figure of Our Lady (Nossa Senhora) manifested materially in countless statues throughout the country. She is a symbol of maternal love inspiring devotion as much amongst dedicated followers of the Catholic faith as amongst more ‘animistically’ inclined Timorese who conceptualise her as the rai inan, a sort of nurturing earth mother.5

Lisan Although possessing considerable influence, the Catholic Church is by no means as ­hegemonic as the above percentage of adherents to the faith would suggest. Numerous images index local people’s loyalty to the Church. They include the grottos dedicated to Our Lady, popular religious processions and a plenitude of Churches scattered throughout the land. Cohabiting with this show of overtly solid Catholic conviction is the persistence, indeed the flourishing revival, of beliefs and practices embedded in the Tetum concept, lisan, or its ­Luso-Tetum counterparts ‘tradisaun’6 (tradition) and kultura (culture). Like tradisaun and kultura, the term lisan includes things conventionally distinguished as ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ in the European lexicon. As such, lisan corresponds to the Malay word adat, which is usually glossed as ‘customary law’ and embraces a comprehensive array of Timorese experience that includes values, beliefs and institutions, many of whose origin is credited to post-human supernatural entities called mate bein, a term conveniently glossed as ‘ancestral ghosts’ or, more simply, ‘ancestors’. Each community or suku (village) or sub-village (aldeia) possesses its ­d istinctive forms of lisan and has ritual bards known as ‘lords of the word’ (lia na’in) who transmit this body of knowledge verbally from generation to generation in 61

David Hicks

addition to imparting advice to the traditional leader (liurai) and others who may solicit it. The ‘words’ here refer to instructions, advice or verbal nuggets of wisdom attributed to the ancestors, as well as myths recounting dramatic deeds performed by the ancestors. These myths include accounts of the manner in which the local lisan came into being, how the ancestors founded their community, were married, contested ownership of land or otherwise engaged in activities of contemporary relevance to their descendants. In sum, the narratives form part of a corpus of oral lore, a vital and enduring source of contemporary rural life, in which the ‘words’ uttered by the ancestors speak so cogently in some communities that they are held by some clergy to pose a challenge to Catholic orthodoxy. A common government view is that they and the lisan they represent pose a threat to their progressive ambitions of bringing Timor-Leste into ‘the modern world’. One way that the State, and for that matter, the Church, ameliorates the perceived threat of lisan is by trying to displace customary institutions and replace them with its own. Thus, we find that the contemporary, government-mandated village councils (suku konselu) bear little resemblance to the traditional suku council, so the role of the lia na’in as custodian of local traditions and as councillor to the traditional liurai bears scant resemblance to the newly defined position in the village councils. This is because he is only one of its constituent members, albeit one possessing most knowledge of lisan including the arcane knowledge of how to deal with denizens of the spirit world. The world of the Timorese spirits is inhabited by a range of elementals, a realm that the Catholic Church has for generations sought to replace by its own creeds. Rai na’in (‘lords of the earth’) and we na’in (‘lords of the water’) are nature spirits haunting forested groves, springs, pools, streams and other places in the wilderness local people consider lulik ­(sacred). Klamar are souls inhabiting the corporeal vessels of a select range of creatures and plants, including rice, corn and buffalos. Souls of recently departed persons are klamar mate (mate  meaning dead). Some ethnolinguistic groups also identify a pair of deities, namely, maromak, an otiose male deity residing in the sky and the already-alluded to rai inan, who, together with these other elementals, resides in a spiritual domain (rai lulik) that is the c­ ounterpart of the material world (rai sa’un). In addition to the lia na’in, several other ritual figures mediate between these two worlds, the most common of which are different kinds of priests with specialised functions and matan do’ok (‘healers’).

State Some national leaders are prone to assume that Timor-Leste’s transformation into a modern nation-state must require the displacement of customary procedures or the syncretism of modern and traditional beliefs.7 Early evidence of this striving for transformation came with the passage of the Law 5/2004 (Magno and Coa 2012: 168) which created the consultative village council (konselu), an avowed hybrid institution intended to incorporate contemporary Western values around gender, age and social status into each local village (suku). The previous indigenous lisan council consisted of married men, that is, male elders of the suku who advised and reported to the chief of the suku (liurai) and mediated between him and the villagers they represented. Both of them were voted into office by adult villages of both sexes. The new institution was comprised of the suku chief, the headmen of each constituent hamlet or sub-village, two women (representante feto), one young person from each gender group ( juventude feto, juventude mane) and one suku elder (Anon 2002). Under the traditions of lisan, a suku council reported to the suku chief, the chefe de suku, but Law 5/2004 demoted this apical political leader to the status of an ordinary member of the konselu.8 62

Lisan, State, Church and community

When the Portuguese first colonised Timor, they found an island divided into dozens of territories they called reinos (kingdoms). Each reino was divided into suku (today’s aldeia or ­‘village’). Each kingdom had at its head a figure known as the liurai whose office was the ­property of a named descent group (uma lisan) which transmitted the office either through the male or female line of descent (i.e., patrilineally or matrilineally) according to the region. When the Portuguese eventually secured a firm hold on Portuguese Timor in the twentieth century, they abolished the kingdoms whilst retaining the sukus and, in doing so, eliminated the office of liurai. The title of liurai was retained but applied instead to the incumbents of the suku (chefe de suku), often irrespective of whether or not they were from a family entitled to that position. Thus was created a second category of liurai, a diarchic arrangement that has persisted into the present time in many sukus. Whilst the State, represented successively by the Portuguese, Indonesians and the present government, officially recognises no distinction between the two categories of liurai, denoting any incumbent suku chief as liurai, the distinction, as we shall see, is highly significant amongst suku residents. One response residents make to the new system of local government, and to the diarchical arrangement, is to give local recognition to what amounts to a bifurcation of authority, a response that Law 5/2004, in effect, reinforces. In some communities therefore, people have two alternative sources of authority from which to seek guidance. They may choose between lisan (traditional) authority and a government-mandated authority (‘modern’), and their choice can result in ideological and practical consequences, one of which occurs when an election for chefe de suku results in the successful candidate coming from a non-liurai uma lisan, as happens as often as not. When this occurs, villagers may continue to look to their traditional liurai for advice on local problems rather than the elected incumbent. In the districts of Liquiça, Ermera, Aileu and Oecussi, communities handle this bifurcation in various ways (Santos and Silva 2012: 214–217). In suku Maubara Lisa (Liquiça), whilst allowing a person from a non-liurai family to run as a candidate for suku chief, residents require a man or woman to first seek permission or ‘consecration’ in a ceremonial blessing conducted under the auspices of the liurai’s traditional authority (uma lisan). In this blessing, the candidate undertakes to discharge his duties as the traditional liurai’s surrogate and not usurp the authority vouchsafed to him by lisan (Santos and Silva 2012: 215). The adjustment made by Ponilala community in Ermera entrusts the traditional liurai with responsibility for matters pertaining to kultura whilst devolving responsibility for resolving disputes over land and other issues subject to governmental regulations to the elected chefe de suku (Santos and Silva 2012: 217). A third response in Ermera to Law 5/2004 is found in suku Lihu where, prior to a konselu election, the traditional liurai lobbies energetically for his chosen candidate to the position of chefe de suku, an intervention that, apparently, in effect, determines the outcome of the election (Santos and Silva 2012: 215). Local alienation between Timor-Leste’s political centre and these rural suku is discernible and is discussed by Alexander Loch (2009: 104) who notes that rural folk look upon ‘nation-building’ as the government’s responsibility not theirs (Governo tenke halo – ‘the ­government must do it!’). In the suku he studied, residents had a rank order of the three institutions that in descending order of precedence stand for uma lisan, Church and State. The research of Alex Gusmão (2012: 189–190) supports these findings, but he also advances the proposition that Timor-Leste’s traditional institutions are nevertheless capable of absorbing democratic practices subject to the proviso that their implementation incorporates Timorese values, an outcome that would strengthen Timorese democracy and enable it to grow more sustainably. Drawing on traditional practices could, he posits, enable the State to empower democracy to put down roots whereas the alternative would undermine a morally satisfying 63

David Hicks

communal way of life and vitiate the sustainability of the government system (see Hicks 2007: 16). Ignoring local forms of governance so embedded in local culture would also mean Timor-Leste’s unique qualities would disappear and with it people’s pride in being East ­Timorese (Gusmão 2012: 189–190). People in Ermera seem to have realised this for they see their values of communal ­solidarity, collectivism and peace bequeathed them by their ancestors as under threat by the new democratic system. In Ermera, suku residents regard the activities of political parties as directly detrimental to their traditional moral system for, in their view, these groups foster individualism and other anti-communal attitudes that bring about new social divisions ­inconsistent with traditional ways (Santos and Silva 2012: 211).9 Villagers also comment that the parties’ vying for power contrast starkly not only with the traditional commitment to consensus found in lisan but also with the political uniformity imposed on communities by the Indonesian government which outlawed political parties (Santos and Silva 2012: 213–214). Santos and Silva (2012) conclude that by ignoring the reality of socio-political life in ­local communities, the State’s attempts to impose democracy in the suku will fail. They spoke with some residents in Oecussi who were in favour of lisan and the State being brought into harmony instead of creating dysfunctional situations such as the one described by a youth representative. They stated that the scope for purposive action by suku council members was, in practice, decidedly more limited than in theory because the administration fails to make effective use of their capacity as formal community representatives. This ­downgrading of function renders them virtually redundant in day-to-day suku governance (Santos and Silva 2012: 215). Only when government officials arrive in their community, they added, do they find themselves empowered to put their roles to active purpose. Research amongst female youth representatives carried out in Viqueque sub-district has shown that they experience even greater dissonance between the normative promises of their authority and the lack of respect they are accorded in reality, particularly from males, and especially older men. Despite the two systems being, in significant respects, misaligned, Santos and Silva (2012) discovered that in some villages, tradisaun and institutional novelty do mutually adjust by devising effective ways of accommodating the disparate requirements of both lisan and State.10 Successful accommodation between the demands of lisan and the requirements of the State is more apparent amongst suku located in the capital. They tend to express more appreciative attitudes towards the State than rural suku, which for the most part disapprove of the konselu and political parties (Gusmão 2012: 180–191).11 In Bairo Pite, an urban suku in Dili, for instance, residents interviewed were ‘happy’ with the involvement of parties in their lives. By contrast in the rural suku of Waimori and other communities in Viqueque sub-district, people strongly opposed involvement of political parties in communal matters (Gusmão 2012: 186). A possible reason, Gusmão (2012) suggests, may be that Bairo Pite and many other urban suku are demographic amalgamations of former residents from different suku outside the capital and therefore lacking a common lisan to defend.12 Another possible explanation may lie in the fact that urban suku are rarely as involved in the agricultural cycle and so lack the ritual discipline that lisan imposes upon farmers. Another reason may lie in the domain of politics. Although suku chiefs and other konselu members residing in rural communities depend, to some extent, upon the resources that central government and other external agencies provide and so cannot simply ignore the conditions imposed on them by Dili, they are geographically distant from the capital and may not be as informed about the ways of government. Urban suku, on the other hand, are forever conscious of the government’s proximity and are more aware of the influence it wields. Then there is education. 64

Lisan, State, Church and community

The typical urban dweller is generally more educated and therefore more knowledgeable about government’s role and the possible benefits that can accrue from politicians; an awareness that may also generate a more open mind towards the political party system. Rural community attitudes towards the new directives can be summarised, following Gusmão (2012: 180–191), into two categories. (A) They wish that the government would allow communities greater autonomy and that political parties were integrated into community affairs.13 (B) Communities satisfied with their traditional liurai and traditional council often failed to understand why they should hold elections at all. I see this attitude prevailing amongst residents of the suku of Uma Wain Kraik, in Viqueque district, of whom it has been said that ‘While they had in many respects adapted elections to their culture requirements (through the election of culturally prescribed leaders) they regarded electoral mechanisms as having been forced upon them without consultation or consideration’ (Gusmão 2012: 186). Their perspective is easily understandable given that the same residents were aware of the fact that their traditional system of government was part of their spiritual and cultural lives and provided a conduit for communication with their ancestors. This integrated system ­includes an ideological and behavioural complex that involves sacred places, agricultural work ­(including the agricultural cycle) and relations with animals, in addition to providing a way of maintaining social harmony (Gusmão 2012: 186). The chefe de suku occupies an office in Uma Wain Kraik that, like other offices, is part of this system, and according to lisan only he or she can exercise legitimate authority (Gusmão 2012: 186). Elsewhere, (e)ven in suku where elections were supported locally, leadership was seen as the business of the community rather than that of outsiders, and there were views expressed regarding the preferred mechanisms for nominating candidates, the role of political parties, the operation of the council, and so on. In different ways, for all villages, the election of their leaders is a community matter’. (Gusmão 2012: 186) In contrast to opinions expressed by the residents of other suku, people in the villages of Parlamentu (Lautem), Caicua (Baucau), Uatulia (Baucau), Triloka (Baucau), Loi Hunu (Viqueque), Waimori (Viqueque) and Ben Ufe (Oecussi) all strongly opposed political p­ arties involving themselves in communal concerns. This attitude is mainly due to the divisions that political parties have engendered, producing what they saw as an inimical influence on the community’s security and threats to socio-cultural life (Gusmão 2012: 186).14

Church Despite its presence in Timor for centuries, the Catholic Church’s proselytising has met with uneven success over space and time. Up to the late 1970s, conversions occurred in more readily accessible localities and the majority of the population, then numbering roughly half a million, remained, what might be called, ‘animists’. At the time of my first ethnographic research in the mid-1960s, so resistant had lisan proven that it seemed a long time would lapse before most Timorese could, with any justification, be classed as Catholic. Yet only a decade later, the entire population had officially opted to select Catholicism as their religion, although not as a result of any religious enlightenment brought about by clergy nor a desire to replace lisan by ‘modernity’ but as the result of pressures wrought by political hegemony. When it governed Portuguese Timor, the Portuguese had tolerated Catholic missions and provided the ecclesiastical authorities with some support for their mission, but did 65

David Hicks

little to promulgate their work. The Indonesian government, however, once its leaders felt securely established in the later years of the 1970s, obliged every Timorese to adopt as his or her religion one of the faiths Indonesian law defined as ‘religion’. The choice offered was Islam, Catholicism, Protestantism, Buddhism or Hinduism, and since the r­ eligion of the conquerors was Muslim and given that the Catholic Church, for all its limited success in conversion, had attained the status of a respected institution over four centuries, there was little doubt which choice the oppressed Timorese would select. In the same vein, decades later, with the coming of independence, whilst the constitution of the new nation-state did not declare Catholicism as the national religion, Timor-Leste could be classed a Catholic country, even if only nominally. The actual state of religion was more open to question and remains so today. The capacity for cohabitation, as Viegas and Feijó (2017) might put it, of lisan, Church and State, as Timorese negotiate their lives between these three institutions of authority is portrayed in a hypothetical anecdote of Loch’s (2009: 98). A Timorese person, he writes, may pray to the Christian God at Mass on a Sunday morning, sacrifice a chicken to the ancestors in the afternoon and at the end of the day watch a Chinese-produced DVD containing scenes that defy lisan protocols. He also provides an ethnographic example from Bobonaro that demonstrates another instance of cohabitation. Plans to build a monument displaying a Catholic Cross in honour of Timorese killed in the struggle for independence (symbols of Church and State), the national flag (State) and a man with a katana (a traditional sword) (lisan) were initially thwarted by local residents. But after the district administrator and a highly respected priest came out in favour of the tableau, this image of cohabitation found support and was eventually completed. The authorities representing all three institutions had granted their imprimaturs.

The three institutions Many government agents, concerned with pushing modernisation and clergy promoting their religion, appear unaware that their respective institutions are already engaged in relations of cohabitation. This is the case even when that relationship is on display as it was during ­Timor-­Leste’s celebration of independence on 20 May 2002 when lia na’in and suku folk from all the districts entered Dili and narrated lisan myths, danced traditional dances and sang traditional songs. State and Church alike are ambivalent about these and other instances of cohabitation: ‘the restarting of major community rituals, marriage practices involving bridewealth and the resence of sacred houses being faced either with praise or criticism, both from the State and the Church’ (Sousa 2009: 108). Lúcio Sousa (2009) points out that the Bishop of Baucau, Dom Basílio do Nascimento, observed in a local radio interview that village elders should be heard because Timor-Leste had traditions and history and culture. He also noted that when Xanana Gusmão had served as president, he had announced the launching of a commission to assemble the country’s lia na’in so that local tradisaun could be observed and lia na’in words be followed (Sousa 2009: 109).15 At the same time, the State refuses to grant recognition to the traditional political systems of local communities and afford lisan the status of an equal partner in local government. Even though a mere 1.7% (estimated) of the population now declares itself animist, in Sousa’s opinion religious syncretism ‘frightens’ the Church (2009: 108). One reason may perhaps lie in the clergy’s realisation that many Catholics who have converted see no contradiction in both following traditional beliefs and practising traditional rituals (Sousa 2009: 110). Sousa cites a young priest’s ‘bitter’ acknowledgement that residents of a remote village in his parish attend church faithfully but that no sooner does he turn his back than they continue carrying out their lisan rituals. He also mentions two Catholic priests in Ainaro who, garbed in traditional Timorese dress, ate meals in their families’ uma lulik. I would characterise this anecdote as yet 66

Lisan, State, Church and community

another instance of the cohabitation of lisan and Catholicism. On the other hand, the displacement or replacement of lulik by the church also occurs. In Malilait, this included appropriating the actual physical space owned by lisan. In that district Bobonaro, where once stood many uma lulik, a giant cross and grotto dedicated to the Virgin Mary are now found adjacent to stones inscribed with the Church’s characterisation of lisan, diablo (devil) (Sousa 2009: 110). One prominent material expression of lisan and of villagers’ commitment to its values is seen in that category of building known alternatively as uma lulik (sacred house) or uma lisan,16 structures that once dominated local landscapes as part of both religious and secular domains. The Indonesian occupation witnessed the destruction of most uma lulik that survived from Portuguese times, but they have been making a comeback since independence, as visible and stalwart ingredients of a revivified, traditional, Timorese topography. As they do with lisan in general, State and Church regard these buildings with a certain measure of ambivalence. Just as the Church, even in pre-Indonesian days, classed uma lulik as material embodiments of a flagrant paganism that resisted conversion, so in contemporary Timor-Leste government officials consider that they make an implicit statement of loyalty to the local kinship group at the expense of the government’s policy of encouraging Timorese to identify first and foremost as citizens of Timor-Leste.17 For their part, some clergy regard the uma lulik as embodiments of lisan and find in them a provocative emblem of paganism. By the 1920s, after the European administration had finally succeeded in gaining control over ­Portuguese Timor, missionaries in certain districts induced villagers who had converted to Catholicism to publicly acknowledge and consolidate their affirmed conversion by wrecking their uma lulik. Whilst such ‘desecration’ was limited to a comparatively few sub-districts in the decades before the Indonesian occupation, in 1966–1967 in Viqueque sub-district villagers with whom I discussed uma lulik were adamant that none still remained in their communities.18 Under the Indonesian occupation, the destruction continued, becoming so widespread that by the time independence only a few had been left standing. Independence brought about a radically new political climate, of course, and lisan resurged with uma lulik sprouting up across the nation-state to become lisan’s most ubiquitous public expression (Hicks 2008). As I have mentioned above, officials of the new government have not greeted this spate of reconstruction appreciatively any more than have foreign agencies. Both point to the expenses incurred in their construction, a major investment of economic resources, time and effort, which critics contend, could be more productively directed to socially useful initiatives like funding and promoting education. As an example of the degree of rebuilding, over the course of 2 years roughly 200 uma lulik were built in the region between Laga and Baguia, in Baucau district (Loch 2009: 99). In the communities of Leda Tame and Nami Bu’u, uma lulik construction cost local residents 4 buffaloes, 6 horses, 19 goats, 20 pigs, 31 sacks of rice, 1 surik (a traditional sword) and USD1500 in cash, ‘at a time when half of the population lived below the poverty line’ (Loch 2009: 99). Like Sousa’s (2009) aggrieved young priest, an individual member of the clergy may decry evidence of the resurgence of lisan, but one could equally argue that the more ambivalent response of the Church as an institution might be because the upper hierarchy considers that the revival did not compromise ecclesiastical authority to any significant degree. Even though lisan might pose a threat to Church dogma, in public, at least, senior clerics appear willing to live with, if not out-and-out syncretism, then at least a form of cohabitation. At the same time, the Church is an integral part of Timorese culture19 and its prestige more pronounced than ever, in part because it proved a steadfast institutional protector of the Timorese during the occupation. The clergy’s efforts amongst the Timorese, inside and outside what was then referred to as ‘East Timor’, especially in Australia, also amplified a sense of national consciousness hitherto restricted to an educated elite minority. 67

David Hicks

The contrast between the esteem in which people hold the Church in the post-UN ­Office in Timor-Leste world and their wary attitude towards the State was publically highlighted in April 2005. Reversing an historical narrative according to which the ­Portuguese and ­Indonesian administrations had extended their reach from Dili into the suku, the political periphery intruded upon the political centre that month as hundreds of young people from every district swarmed into the capital to join Dili students and schoolchildren in a spectacular demonstration of support for the Church. For weeks, Dili found itself in a state of s­uspended anticipation as the demonstrators prayed in the streets, played guitars, joined rallies addressed by a well-known ­ anifestasaun (or ‘Demonclergy and slept out at night on the Dili beaches (Hicks 2005).20 The M stration’), as the event became known, was a reaction to a M ­ inistry of Education memorandum that threatened to rescind the legal mandate that Catholic doctrine be a compulsory subject in schools. Dom Alberto Ricardo da Silva, the Bishop of the Dili diocese, and Dom Basílio do Nascimento, the Bishop of Baucau, the country’s two senior prelates, rejected the proposal and the clergy had arranged with lay members of their congregation, as I was told, to transport the young people from their local communities into Dili. Only when Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri withdrew the proposal did the demonstration end. As it had with the Indonesian authorities, the Catholic Church showed another government that the support it enjoyed amongst the ­populace made it a power with which to be reckoned. Adding to the Church’s opposition, the legacy of the State also faces a challenge from lisan in the suku. One can see evidence of this in the Laclubar sub-district of Funar. Here, the words of the ancestors are being deployed by rival uma lisan groups to advance competing claims on social status and ownership of land. Such disputes typically originate from political machinations and rivalries during the Indonesian occupation (Bovensiepen 2014). As both Portuguese and Indonesian regimes only promoted individuals into positions of authority judged loyal to their positions regardless of their traditional status in the social hierarchy, the administrative authorities subverted local hierarchies. The resulting socio-­ political ­d isplacements generated intense rivalries between uma lisan discontented with their diminished socio-political status and motivated the leaders (lia na’in) to evoke the authority of their respective ancestors for support as they contested their rival’s claims and sought to advance their own (Bovensiepen 2014).

Lisan, State and Church: cohabitation? Lisan, too, faces challenges of its own and from its followers. During the Indonesian ­occupation, Indonesian security forces drove thousands of residents from rural areas and concentrated them into towns where they could be more easily controlled.21 Now that Timor-Leste is independent people are free to return to their old villages, but many decline to do so despite the demands of lisan, which direct villagers to return to their ancestral locations. ­Convenience trumps ancestral directives in many cases. In Uma Wain Kraik suku, in Viqueque sub-district, for example, people are content to continue residing in or around its largest urban centre where they have access to a school, clinic, shops and street stalls where food is plentiful. Lisan, however, does play a card because the traditional liurai and his family also prefer to remain in town rather than return to their ancestral sub-village of Uha Cai, miles away in the countryside. Since lisan ordains that people may return to Uma Wain Kraik only after their liurai returns, such a move is moot. In 2016, generous Australian funding built a large and handsome church in Viqueque town and one may suppose that for devout Catholics, the convenience of residing within its precincts reinforces the pragmatic choice to remain urbanites. 68

Lisan, State, Church and community

Irrespective of the demands of lisan, State and Church people not so thoroughly impelled by any single institutions as to be unaware that the other two provide them with options. As Viegas and Feijó (2017) have argued when interpreting the Fataluku funerary tableau as an instance of cohabitation, so I would argue for a similar handling of the three institutions in the course of daily life. Regarded from the standpoint of cohabitation rather than conflict or synthesis, we may understand how a villager might feel free to select amongst the different advantages offered by lisan, Church and State without experiencing a sense of contradiction or guilt. None demands an exclusive choice at the expense of the other two, but rather there are always opportunities for an individual to take advantage of what each institution has to offer. A father may take his ailing child to a hospital to be diagnosed yet also seek guidance from a traditional healer (matan do’ok) as well as asking a nun to pray for the child’s recovery (Loch 2009: 104). In July 2015, my wife and I participated in a ritual where the cohabitation of lisan, State and Church was publicly on display in the form of a pilgrimage that progressed through all the country’s parishes. The centrepiece of the parade consisted of a statue of the Holy Virgin as Nossa Senhora Peregrina (Our Lady the Pilgrim) and a large crucifix bearing a figure of the crucified Christ, the Cruz Joven (Youth Cross). These were conveyed around the streets of the capital Dili, by hundreds of the faithful, including clergy, reciting the Rosary and then – with the faithful waving farewell to the masculine and feminine sacra – were loaded onto a motor boat and transported to a parish on the offshore island of Atauro. There they remained for a few days before being retrieved amidst great acclamation, and taken to into other parishes in the countryside (Figure 5.1). The symbolism of the ceremony was enriched beyond reference to the Church (the ­Virgin) and the State (nationalism) by a more ancient imperative that had been called upon to register its presence. On forehead of the Cruz Joven, the Christ figure wore a caibowki,22

Figure 5.1  Photo of Nossa Senhora Peregrina and Cruz Joven

69

David Hicks

an evocative symbol of tradisaun for Catholics and non-Catholics alike. By its placement, lisan had been acknowledged as a full and proper partner, a cohabitation with Church and State in the contemporary world of Timor-Leste and publicly accorded its due.

Notes 1 I thank Dr. João Amorim, director of the Vogal da Comissão Executiva, Fundação Oriente Museu, for granting me a residence at the Fundação’s magnificent and welcoming centre in Dili for a period of three weeks to enable me to carry out my research. This essay is one product of his investment in my scholarly work. I extend my gratitude also to Senhora Graça Viegas, its manager, for making my residence as comfortable as it was productive. I also thank Dr. Susana de Matos Viegas for the instrumental role she played in making my residence at the Fundação possible. 2 A prominent example of the syncretism of lisan and the State is the office of liurai, discussed above. 3 In the form of two colonial authorities, the United Nations, governmental laws issued by the Timor-Leste government and domestic political parties. 4 Amended in 2009 and again in 2016. 5 In ideologically conjoining the two female entities, the Timorese are responding to a similar process Eric Wolf (1958) has detected amongst rural Mexicans in the devotion to their country’s patron saint, Our Lady of Guadalupe. 6 I place ‘tradisaun’ between inverted commas to signal that what is often considered a traditional institutions may, in fact, be a considerably more recent import. 7 An indication of political leaders’ attitudes is demonstrated in their drafting new laws without public consultation in the local communities (Asia Foundation circa 2004: 12). 8 The authority of the elected varied amongst sukus. In the suku of Uma Wain Kraik (Viqueque), for instance, the elected chief was also the local liurai, elected authority and traditional authority combined. As one might expect, the two systems harmonised. From what I have been told, however, the situation in other suku elsewhere varied. 9 Cf. ‘…many people are fundamentally against the involvement of political parties in the election process, particularly at the local level’ (Santos and Silva 2012: 212). 10 They recount how, during the Indonesian occupation, certain communities devised what they called a ‘wrapping up’ procedure that aligned local lisan with the Indonesian administration’s system of local government. Villagers asserted that that experience equipped them with the skills necessary for adjusting customary codes to the new government’s regulations (Santos and Silva 2012: 216). 11 I am grateful to the observation by Professors Andrew McWilliam and Michael Leach that this probably reflects the greater presence of government services and activities than in the countryside and the relative weakness of lisan in urban areas. 12 McWilliam suggests as another possible explanation the fact that in the rural areas, people never see political party representatives from one election to another. 13 This might seem to contradict community criticism of political parties operating in their localities, but what villagers are saying here, as I understand it, is that if parties are going to be a part of suku life, then party leaders should at least be aware of communities’ needs and desires, take them into account and work to fulfil them. 14 Following the 2009 revision of the suku law, political parties were prohibited from participating in suku elections. 15 I am grateful to Professor Leach for pointing out that this did not happen and that Gusmão loudly opposed the idea of a liurai Senate. 16 The alternative term uma lisan has two referents. One referent is material: the physical building itself, which houses sacra belonging to the kin group (clan, lineage or extended family) and which are credited to have been in the group’s possession from the time of the early ancestors. The other referent is to the kinship collectivity, including living kin and ancestors. 17 A more extensive discussion of uma lulik may be found in Hicks (2008). 18 Research carried out in 2005 revealed Viqueque villagers had not been altogether forthcoming on this score! 19 And vice versa in many respects, as Professor McWilliam points out. 20 For a fuller account of the demonstration, see Hicks (2011).

70

Lisan, State, Church and community 21 McWilliam notes that in these urban settlements, the Administration could provide such services as schools, water supply and electricity, which might be the main reason the Uha Cai people (see below), are reluctant to move out of Viqueque town rather than for reasons of lisan. 22 A horn-shaped metal ornament displayed on the forehead and fastened around the head with a band.

References Anon. (2002). Atlas de Timor Leste, Lisbon, Porto, Coimbra: LIDEL. Anon. (2004). ‘Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste National Parliament (2004) Law…/2004 on the Election of Suco Chiefs and Suco Councils’, Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste National Parliament, Dili, Timor-Leste. Asia Foundation. (circa 2004). Law and Justice in East Timor: A Survey of Citizen Awareness and Attitudes Regarding Law and Justice in East Timor, San Francisco, CA: The Asia Foundation. Bovensiepen, Judith. (2014). ‘Words of the Ancestors: Disembodied Knowledge and Secrecy in East Timor’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.), 20: 56–73. Gusmão, Alex. (2012). ‘Electing Community Leaders: Diversity in Uniformity’, Local Global: Identity, Security, Community, 11: 180–191. Hicks, David. (2007). ‘Community and Nation-State in East Timor: A View from the Periphery’, Anthropology Today, 23(February): 13–16. Hicks, David. (2008). ‘Afterword: Glimpses of Alternatives: The Uma Lulik of East Timor’, In Against Belief? Simon Coleman and Galina Lindquist (eds), Social Analysis, 52(1): 166–180, Special Issue, London: Berghahan Books. Hicks, David. (2011). ‘Church Confronts State: The 2004 Manifestasaun in Timor-Leste’, In Religion, Politics, and Globalization: Anthropological Approaches, Galina Lindquist and Don Handelman (eds), pp. 117–143, Oxford, NY: Berghahan Books. Loch, Alexander. (2009). ‘Nation Building at the Village Level: First the House, then the Church and Finally a Modern State’, In East Timor: How to Build a New Nation in Southeast Asia in the 21st Century? Christine Cabasset and Frederic Durand (eds), pp. 95–104. Bangkok: Research Institute German Contemporary Southeast Asia (IRASEC & CASE). Magno, José da Costa and António Coa. (2012). ‘Finding a New Path between Lisan and Democracy at the Suku Level’, Local Global, 11: 166–178. NSD/UNFPA (National Statistics Directorate/United Nations Population Fund). (2011). Population and Housing Census of Timor-Leste, 2010, Volume 2, Population Distribution by Administrative ­Areas, Dili: National Statistics Directorate and United Nations Population Fund. Available at www.mof.gov.tl/ wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Publication-2-English-Web.pdf (accessed 29 November 2017). Santos, Abel Boavida dos and Elda da Silva. (2012). ‘Introduction of a Modern Democratic System and its Impact on Societies in East Timorese Traditional Culture’, Local Global: Identity, Security, Community, 11: 206–220. Sousa, Lúcio. (2009) ‘Denying Peripheral Status, Claiming a Role in the Nation: Sacred Words and Ritual Practices as Legitimating Identity of a Local Community in the Context of the New ­Nation’, In East Timor: How to Build a New Nation in Southeast Asia in the 21st Century? Christine Cabasset and Frederic Durand (eds), pp. 105–120. Bangkok: Research Institute German ­Contemporary Southeast Asia (IRASEC & CASE). ­ ataluku Viegas, Susana de Matos and Rui Graça Feijó. (2017). ‘Funerary Posts and Christian Crosses: F Cohabitations with Catholic Missionaries after World War II (Timor-Leste)’, Paper presented at ‘Crossing Histories and Ethnographies’ conference, Lisbon: Instituto Ciências Sociais da ­Universidade de Lisboa (ICS), 1–2 July 2013. Forthcoming, In Crossing Histories and Ethnographies, Roque Rodrigȗes (ed), Oxford, NY: Berghaan Books. Wolf, Eric R. (1958). ‘The Virgin of Guadalupe: A Mexican National Symbol’, Journal of American Folklore, 71(279): 34–79.

71

6 THE FUTURE OF EAST TIMORESE nationalism Michael Leach

If Timor becomes master of its own destiny… then an ethnic-historical identity, a ­cultural and religious identity and eventually a political identity will develop irresistibly, like the torrential streams of the rivers of our nation. (Xanana Gusmão 1986)

In this perceptive metaphor, Xanana Gusmão signals his acute grasp of the challenges of East Timorese nationalism. Evoking Timor-Leste’s mountain streams that join in flood, Gusmão’s metaphor placed the development of a political identity at the endpoint of the process, following the accumulation of ethnic, historical, cultural and religious factors. Written in the 1980s, it acknowledged that the nation-building experience would ultimately be a political one, with self-determination essential to the final phase of constructing a national ­community. The metaphor also captured the plural and anti-colonial character of East Timorese nationalism: tasked with forging a nation from ethnically diverse populations, sharing a commonly administered historical territory bequeathed by a departing European colonial power (see e.g. Tønnesson and Antlöv 1996: 21). In this process, the slow development of a shared cultural and religious ­identity in Timor-Leste was critical milestones, but not the endpoint. This chapter examines the evolving character of East Timorese nationalism. It starts with an historical overview of nation-building and national identity in Timor-Leste, examining how supralocal forms of political identity developed over the long sweep of East Timorese history from 1515 to 2015. The final century saw the successive attempts to define the East Timorese as colonial subjects of Portugal, as members of a ‘pluri-racial’ Portuguese Empire, as citizens of the Republic of Indonesia and, finally, as a nation under illegal occupation that demanded its right to self-determination. Though it was only in the very latter stages of this long era that self-conscious East Timorese nationalists joined this contest, this final step built upon the longer processes of producing ‘identifying structures’ in East Timorese society (Sousa 2001: 92), developed over hundreds of years of transformation to the political societies of the eastern half of the island. Within the context of East Timorese nationalism, this chapter then examines how ­competing ‘nations-of-intent’ have ideologically contested the political values and identity of the nation from 1970s decolonisation era onwards. It discusses the distinctive features of East Timorese nationalism, including its rapid transition from a conventional anti-colonialist 72

Future of East Timorese nationalism

narrative, mobilised against Portuguese colonialism, to one contesting Indonesia’s looming forced integration of the decolonising territory in 1975; and the way the East Timorese resistance employed ideas of an inner ‘spiritual domain’ (Chatterjee 1993) of identity. ­Focussing on more recent shifts in ‘official’ East Timorese nationalism, it examines how recent ­government discourses invoked the arrival of Catholicism as the ‘affirmation of Timorese identity’ (RDTL 2015a) and developed a modern nationalist narrative which partly reflects traditional ‘origin stories’. These discourses were accompanied by unsuccessful government attempts to transform a national identity focussed on the history of the resistance to one mobilised around the goals of national development. Finally, the chapter speculates on the future of East Timorese nationalism, reflecting on the implications of the ‘youth bulge’ in East Timorese society.

Types of nationalisms: the Asian context Though they disagree over the processes of forming national communities, scholars of ­nationalism broadly agree that there are three major types of modern nations. Discussing Asian nationalisms, Tønnesson and Antlöv summarise these models: If an ethnic group forms its own state, you get ethno-nationalism; if a state uses its bureaucracy to mobilise a single national culture, you get official nationalism; … if the inhabitants of a certain territory secede from a larger state or colonial power, and form a new multi-ethnic state with a joint national ideology, you get plural nationalism. (1996: 20) With an ethnolinguistically diverse population, in a territory demarcated by competitive European colonialism, Timor-Leste might be seen as a paradigmatic case of anti-colonial nationalism in 1974–1975. Yet by the 1980s, the processes of creating an ‘ethnic-historical’ community were well in train. New forms of ethnic commonality buttressed the secular ­a nti-colonial nationalism of the 1970s, as East Timorese society evolved to become a predominantly Catholic society of Tetun speakers by the 1990s. These features built on the historical predominance of Tetun language as the colonial lingua franca and missionary ­language, the diverse traditions of lisan, and the multiple legacies of centuries of interaction with ­Portuguese colonialism which distinguished Timor-Leste from surrounding societies. Some of these features, most notably Catholicism, expanded dramatically under the Indonesian occupation, in patterns of active and passive resistance to neocolonial power. In combination with a new ‘nation-of-intent’ emphasising national unity over the competing ideological visions of 1970s nationalism, the nation of Timor-Leste emerged through processes of nationalist agitation and communal transformation, in resistance to consecutive colonial occupations.

Historical overview: the slow emergence of a collective identity While early Europeans encountered many kingdoms on Timor, the legacy of an earlier T ­ etunspeaking elite had left relatively common features in traditional authority structures and ­political-ritual systems across the island (Hagerdal 2012: 65). At the time of European contact, the West Timorese kingdom of Wehale represented the legacies of that dominance, providing ritual legitimation to localised kingdoms, which were politically independent but formed larger tributary realms (Hagerdal 2012: 60–61). These realms became the basis of Eurocentric perception of two ‘provinces’ on the island, identified as Belu in the centre and east, and Servião in the 73

Michael Leach

west (see also Kammen 2010). These imagined collectivities broadly corresponded with evolving Portuguese ambitions on the island, as the Dutch established themselves in the West. The original indigenous meaning of these divisions were transformed by the colonial powers in the processes of managing their colonial possessions, but they remained in Timorese understandings of wider tributary realms on the island. Though the border separating East and West Timor was a classic product of competitive colonialism, these colonial perceptions, built upon indigenous tributary networks, to some degree prefigured the future territorial boundaries of East and West Timor. Despite their consistent rejection of Portuguese secular authority, the early mestico group, the Topasses, ultimately reinforced the Portuguese presence as they continued to maintain the sovereign claims of the Portuguese Crown against the Dutch. Integrating themselves over time into the Timorese elites, the Topasses were in some respects forerunners of p­ articular East Timorese attitudes to the Portuguese presence: embracing aspects of the language and religion as part of their own identity, whilst firmly rejecting Portuguese interference in their internal affairs (Leach 2017: 26). The long era of Portuguese indirect rule in the half-island saw widely replicated p­ atterns of accommodation and resistance amongst the Timorese reinos, marked by the payment of ­fintas (tributes), oaths of loyalty, periodic rebellions and, later, the acculturation of indigenous elites into Portuguese language and the Catholic religion. Over time, aspects of traditional society were reconfigured in ways favourable to the colonial power, with the incorporation of Portuguese flags as lulik objects, the award of consistent military ranks to traditional ­leaders and the creation of troops of the second line. At each phase of increased Portuguese authority, regular patterns of Timorese resistance were evident, meeting new incursions upon traditional governance with active or passive resistance. Over time, this provided different ethnolinguistic groups in Timor with similar experiences of external power, whether in collaboration or in resistance with the Portuguese. By the end of the nineteenth century, most traditional reinos remained intact, although their power structures had been modified over time by features of hybrid commonality in relation to external powers, including these tributary relationships, elite Catholic conversions and periodically violent contacts with Portuguese colonial authority. The exceptions were areas such as Dili, Oecussi and Manatuto, where the Portuguese presence was most consistent; and forms of common creolised culture had already emerged from the long interaction with colonialism. With intercolonial borders essentially in place by the late nineteenth century, the ­territorial dimension of the future nation was emerging. Yet regular patterns of Timorese resistance remained the most striking features of the early colonial era, meeting new incursions upon their sovereignty with forms of resistance. Whilst these regular rebellions to preserve liurai authority over traditional realms did little to forge supralocal unities ­between ­ethnolinguistic groups, they provided the basis of common experiences and ‘shared memories’ (e.g. ­Jannisa 183) for later nationalists to draw upon, highlighting the common ­experiences of the different kingdoms in relation to the European outsiders. The frequent rebellions of the Timorese reinos, therefore, may be seen as cases of ‘pre-nationalist’ sentiment, in the form campaigns for the preservation of liurai authority over local kingdoms Rebellion of a more distinctively supralocal character emerged with the Manufahi War from 1908 to 1912. Where indirect rule had reinforced the internal liurai power, new colonial interventions imposed obligations on Timorese subjects owed directly to the colonial state (e.g. Gunn 1999: 7). In combination with attempts to regulate traditional domains of land and livestock use, and the fall of the Portuguese monarchy to which many liurais believed they had pledged their loyalty, the intensification of colonial power saw widespread rebellion across 74

Future of East Timorese nationalism

Portuguese Timor. The sheer scale of the Boaventura uprising involving multiple kingdoms, and the anti-colonial character of a pact made by liurais against the malae mutin (white foreigners) (Belo 2012: 6) seems the clearest indication of a ‘proto-nationalist’ rebellion, even if it was in collective defence of traditional rights to govern their own reinos. In concert with other rebellions of 1912, the Manufahi War suggested the emergence of new ‘variants of feelings of collective belonging’ (Hobsbawm 1990) capable of future expansion. Whether seen as an emerging form of anti-colonial consciousness, or a collective last stand of liurai authority, the defeat of the ­Manufahi and other rebellions of 1912 marked the final phase of independent kingdoms. The military reconfiguration of the territory that followed the rebellions created the framework for the future development of an East Timorese identity. Exercising direct rule over most of the territory for the first time, the Portuguese no longer governed through autonomous intermediaries swearing fealty to the Crown. Breaking the traditional reinos into smaller sucos, the reconfiguration of East Timorese societies created a territory-wide system of governance for the first time, imposing uniform laws, administrative features and improved communications across the territory. In creating a common territorial administration, the colonial state also created the conditions for identifying with – or against – the one clear authority in the territory. These developments led to the refinement of two colonial strategies: isolation of the Timorese populace in their postos (sub-districts) and new forms of co-optation of the indigenous elites. Portuguese colonialism failed to promote the sort of economic development that eroded local loyalties and created new solidarities across linguistic groups, but the reconfiguration of traditional elites saw the rise of a small letrado (literate) class capable of new frames of reference beyond the traditional reinos and dissatisfied with their place in the colonial order. It is instructive in this respect that the 1959 Viqueque rebellion was dominated by lower level Timorese ­colonial functionaries. This group was the precursor of a larger assimilado class to come, which would have increasing social weight with the relative expansion of education in the early 1970s. A rough measure of this expansion is evident in voting figures for the 1957 and 1973 elections: though the Caetano reforms devolved few real powers to the colonies, the number of voters in Legislative Council elections expanded from 2,000 in 1957 to 11,000 in 1973 ( Jannisa 1997: 103). This expansion of education in Portuguese Timor was marked by two inherently contradictory objectives: to stabilise the colony by advancing a larger indigenous elite into the administration, whilst also maintaining political control (Hill 2002). By the 1960s, the influence of the Second Vatican Council saw the Church increasingly distance itself from colonial states and the uncritical support for Portuguese colonialism evident in the Concordat era. The Catholic college at Soibada and the seminary of Dare, for example, were particularly important institutions for the formation the future nationalist elite. The role of the Portuguese military was also significant, as the late colonial era saw many Timorese men perform compulsory military service in the late 1960s and early 1970s. For many Timorese, this provided the first experience of spending time with Timorese from other linguistic groups. Writings on local culture were shared in military publications, and the late colonial army was perhaps also an important influence on strategy, being the first to use the term apartidismo (non-partisanship) in 1974–1975. As de Sousa notes (2001: 191), Timor proved different to the rest of the Portuguese colonial empire in that the Church and the army ‘became factors of both local cultural identity and the development of “national” claims’.

Competing ‘nations-of-intent’ Originally developed in studies of African nationalisms (Rotberg 1966), this concept focuses on the way competing ideas of the nation are invoked in ideological contests between 75

Michael Leach

different nationalist groupings. Shamsul defines a ‘nation-of-intent’ as a particular ideological vision of the nation: A nation-of-intent is a more or less precisely defined idea of the form of a nation, i.e. its territory, population, language, culture, symbols and institutions…shared by a number of people who perceive themselves as members of that nation, and who feel that it unites them. … [It] may imply a radical transformation of a given state, and the exclusion or inclusion of certain groups of people. …It may be an inclusive construct, open to others, and which is employed as the basis for a political platform voicing dissent or a challenge to the established notion of nation. (1996: 324) In this conception, nationalism is seen as a discursive contest over the values, form and boundaries of a nation, between particular ideological projects. Following the 1974 Carnation Revolution, Portuguese Timor’s small, educated, assimilado elite developed new parties, each bearing a distinct ‘nation-of-intent’, or ideological vision of nationalism (Leach 2016: 55–60). Against the Timorese Social Democratic A ­ ssociation-Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor (Associação Social Democrática Timor-Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente – ASDT-FRETILIN) vision of a modernising secular and social democratic nation, represented by the unifying image of the ‘­Maubere’ people; the Timorese Democratic Union (União Democrática Timorense – UDT) promoted continuing visions of a Lusitanian assimilado identity, and a hierarchical ­Catholic society in continuing association with Portugal. Advocating integration with ­Indonesia, APODETI (Associacão Popular Democratica Timorense – ­ ssociation) reprised ideas of older unities with the ancient ‘cen­Timorese Popular Democratic A tre’ in Wehale (Molnar 2009: 44), recalling links to West Timor. The distinctively traditionalist vision of the nation promoted by KOTA ­(Klibur Oan Timor Asuwain - Association of Timorese Heroes) sought to restore liurai ­authority over the traditional reinos, which predated the colonial reorganisation of the territory (Hicks 2014). The clashes between these ‘nations-of-intent’ would define the fault lines within early East Timorese nationalism, evidenced most gravely in the civil war after the breakdown of the FRETILIN-UDT coalition in 1975. Throughout 1974–1975, early ASDT-FRETILIN activists had considerable success in not only mobilising the population through literacy campaigns in Tetun and other political education and songs, but also in creating a focal figure of national identity that could cross local vernaculars in the figure of the ‘Maubere’. This folk figure evoked the ethnolinguistically diverse peoples of  East Timor as a ­collective entity, yet also drew upon ideas of a spiritual “inner domain” of national identity of that was “always sovereign” (Chatterjee 1993: 6). Formerly a derogatory term for mountain people, this classic anti-colonial inversion of its prior usage suggests a reservoir ­ imorese identity being invoked by nationalist awareness. The contrast with the UDT’s of true T use of the term povo (people) was clear in that “Maubere” was a term exclusive of the mestiço landowning elites. Early nationalist historians also wrote of the long centuries of Timorese resistance, charactering them as proto-­nationalist stories of active and passive resistance (Araújo 1975). Developing an anti-­colonial narrative and attempting to construct the notion of an East Timorese national identity and history, FRETILIN confronted traditional and colonial mores. At the same time early FRETILIN and OPMT (Organização Popular de Mulher Timor - The Popular ­Organisation of East ­Timorese Women) activists emphasised kore a’an, or ‘self-liberation’ from aspects of tradition, colonial social relations, and of Church doctrine (Leach 2016: 70–71). During the Indonesian occupation, a separate ‘nation-of-intent’ emerged in the reorganisation of the resistance in the 1980s to a non-partisan front. The National Council 76

Future of East Timorese nationalism

of  the Maubere Resistance (Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere – CNRM) focussed on self-­determination and eschewed overt ideology and party politics in favour of a simple commitment to national liberation. When FALINTIL was confirmed as the armed wing of CNRM, the shift to apartidismo was complete. As Walsh comments, the demise of the single ­‘revolutionary’ front conception meant the CNRM could appeal to all nationalists, presenting itself as non-partisan in orientation, and ending the politics of ‘party ID cards’ (1999: 3). A new alliance with the Church aided the emergence of a departicised vision of national community, united in military, clandestine and diplomatic resistance to the occupation. ­Political affiliations to the postcolonial Lusophone world sharpened the contrast with attempts to ‘Indonesianise’ the society, reinforcing the argument under international law that Portugal remained the administering power until a valid act of self-determination. Levelling charges of ‘cultural genocide’ against the occupier in the 1980s, the Church ­became a pan-territorial religious-cultural institution, increasingly perceived as an ­a lternative national community. Authorised by Indonesian state policy, but reinforcing a separate identity, conversions saw the Catholic population rise from 180,000 in 1970s to half a million by 1990s (Hill 2002: xv), and some 90% of the population by the time of ­independence. ­Catholic identification overlapped with nationalist identification in ways that were ­sanctioned by the Indonesian regime, yet potentially subversive. The ‘nationalising ­effects’ of a shared ­religious affinity, reinforced by the Tetun liturgy and an independent clergy, were profound and ­irreversible. In the 1990s, the emergence of a clandestine ­movement – ­dominated by younger Indonesian speakers – was a strategic setback of the highest order for the project of i­ntegration, from which it would never recover. Despite the formal secularism of the resistance, clandestine strategy used growing popular affiliations to the Church to destabilise Indonesian rule, strategically mobilising religious affinity as an ethnic component of national identity in the lead up to the Santa Cruz massacre of 1991 (Leach 2016: 108–109).

‘Nations-of-intent’ and multiparty democracy Following the National Council of Timorese Resistance (Conselho Nacional da Resistência Timorense – CNRT) victory in the 1999 referendum, the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor era was initially seen as a state-building success, but later regarded as a lost opportunity for inclusive nation-building. The constitution-making process was tied to a rushed UN timetable, driven by local elite pressure to ‘Timorise’ the administration, with a party-dominated assembly, and relatively token popular participation. With the independence movement ultimately having eschewed the more ideological manifestations of early nationalism to keep competing political tendencies in step, competitive multiparty elections in the immediate wake of the united front era, encouraged the re-emergence of distinct ideological ‘nations-of-intent’ (Leach 2016: 120–127). The Constitutional Assembly would make some pragmatic compromises on earlier controversial positions on official languages and national days, but many of the symbolic values and affinities of the constitution reflected those of the dominant nationalist grouping: of an older generation of Portuguese-speaking CNRT nationalists in general, and of FRETILIN in particular (Leach 2002). This era was also defined by major intergenerational tensions over the political settlement of 2001, in which two visions of the East Timorese nation associated with different eras of the resistance clashed. For an older generation, the history of Portuguese colonialism and international Lusophone solidarity was a defining aspect of East Timorese nationalism, historically separating Timor-Leste from the cognate cultures of West Timor. These affinities 77

Michael Leach

had a strategic political dimension as well as symbolic-historical context. They reinforced the central claim made by the resistance: that East Timor’s right to self-determination was historically and legally separate to Indonesia’s own. For a younger generation more connected with the CNRT era, the Indonesian reformasi movement and who saw the Tetun-speaking Catholic Church as a major locus of national sentiment from the late 1980s onwards, these affinities no longer held great weight. In the wake of the restoration of independence in 2002, these partly suppressed ‘­nationsof-intent’ would clash again in the era of multiparty democracy, as FRETILIN secularism encountered new realities in a Catholicised society, accustomed to an non-­ideological emphasis on national unity. The distinct experiences and educational backgrounds of two generations of nationalists, respectively encountering Portuguese and Indonesian colonialism, would complicate the task of articulating a simple, unifying postcolonial national identity. The official language debate was a particularly fierce element of this contest in the early years after 2002. Combined with this issue were resentments over the returning diaspora, perceived to be benefitting disproportionately from the fruits of independence. The ­F RETILIN government’s clash with the Church over the issue of religious education, and its subsequent recognition of the Church’s now central role in East Timorese society, would be a defining one for post-independence nationalism. It was little surprise that the ­Parliamentary Majority Alliance and Government Coalition Bloc governments that followed reached a closer accommodation with the Church, despite being led by the secular figure of Xanana Gusmão. Over the life of the first constitutional government from 2002 to 2006, the nation-building process would be greatly complicated by a suite of interrelated national ‘fault lines’ (Leach 2016: 149–164). These were each associated with different ‘constituencies’ seeking recognition of their contribution to the achievement of independence, or justice for their suffering during the occupation. These included the Catholic Church, youth, dissident FALINTIL veterans, military petitioners, the clandestine resistance, women active in the resistance and victims groups. Making serial claims against the East Timorese state, these actors argued they had been sidelined in the emerging ‘official’ landscape of national identity. Debates over the national history would come to reflect these widening fault lines. The 2006 political-military crisis represented the dramatic culmination of these ­nationbuilding tensions, issuing in a violent confluence of ‘dualisms’ dividing the political community, between FRETILIN and CNRT nations-of-intent; local and diaspora East ­Timorese; younger and older nationalists; the army and the police; modern and traditional authority; and those seeking reconciliation, over victims seeking justice. Distinctively, the crisis saw old colonial stereotypes of Firaku (easterners) and Kaladi (westerners) reprised in response to perceived disrespect from elements of the FDTL (Forças de Defesa de ­Timor-Leste) leadership, who had questioned the contribution of Westerners to national liberation. The crisis was perceived locally as the correction of a series of imbalances in society, stemming from the failure to recognise those who had suffered most during the occupation. For some, the crisis reflected a ‘clash of paradigms’ between traditional and liberal democratic ideas of legitimacy (Trindade and Castro 2007), with more traditional Timorese seeing the ­nation-state as an ‘external’ entity imposed from Dili, which failed to acknowledge the traditions still governing rural communities. This highlighted continuing challenges for the new state in balancing the strengths of tradition against the egalitarian requirements of a modern liberal polity. It was significant that the 2006 conflict took place in the urban centre of Dili, where new proximities between different language groups were being negotiated

78

Future of East Timorese nationalism

and an emerging modern ‘national’ culture was being contested, away from the established traditions governing local communities. The 2007 and 2012 election campaigns were centrally defined by the politics of recognition of contributions to the resistance, a focus that was linked to political stability in the wake of the crisis. A new government was more inclusive of smaller parties, representing a partial return to an earlier CNRT ‘nation-of-intent’, though divisions between Fretilin and non-Fretilin parties hardened. These divisions were buttressed by new regionalised voter affiliations which represented a potential threat to national unity. The extent of the regionalisation was stark. FRETILIN’s national parliamentary vote of 29% comprised a vote share of 57.5% in the three ‘eastern’ districts, but just 18.9% from the ten ‘western’ districts. The era from 2007 to 2012 was marked by a bitter division within Timor-Leste’s ­political elite, linked with long-standing personal feuds amongst the senior leadership, as the government used new windfall gains from oil and gas revenues to address the legacies of the crisis, including new pensions for veterans. The CNRT victory in the 2012 elections saw the tone slowly shift to a new era of ‘consensus’ politics defined by cooperation between the two major forces in East Timorese politics, Xanana Gusmão and FRETILIN. This was given material form by unprecedented opposition support for national budgets from 2013, and the appointment of Mari Alkatiri as the head of a major project to develop Oecussi as a Special Economic Zone (Zonas Especiais de Economia Social de Mercado – ZEESM). The long-­a nticipated departure of Gusmão from the prime minister’s office in early 2015 saw a more substantial return to the politics of national unity, with a handover over to a FRETILIN Prime Minister, Rui de Araújo. Though it would only last two years, this remarkable transition solidified the elite rapprochement and saw a partial transition of power to a new generation and a renewed focus on Timor-Leste’s unresolved maritime boundaries.

Attempts to reformulate East Timorese resistance identity A new consensus on ‘official’ nationalism saw partially reformulated ideas of East Timorese identity advanced by the newly united elite, seeking to transform a national identity of resistance to one mobilised around national development. One of the more notable announcements of 2015 declared an ‘end of national mourning’ (Desluto Nacional) period from 4 September until 31 December (RDTL 2015b). The opening date marked the announcement of the referendum result in 1999, with the closing date – declared the ‘Day of the Heroes’ – marking the death of the Nicolau Lobato and the end of the first phase of the military resistance in 1978. The same announcement declared the unveiling of the foundation stone for a new ‘National ­Monument to the War-Sacrificed’, to be known as the Eternal Flame Monument (Chama Eterna). The meanings of this government-declared ‘mourning-end’ were much debated amongst Dili intellectuals, with aspects of the symbolism suggesting different readings. On the one hand, the ‘mourning-end’ could be seen as the simple culmination of the 40-year anniversary of the 1975 invasion. On the other hand, the naming of the period also evoked parallels with traditional Kore Metan ceremonies, the end of the one-year mourning period after the death of loved ones. This suggested to many that the period was intended to mark a point of ‘moving on’ from the legacies of the past, with government encouragement to focus instead on development. This view was given credence by subsequent government statements on the Desluto Nacional, which declared that 4 September would mark

79

Michael Leach

a new chapter in the story of Timor-Leste … to look back on the past, recognizing the struggle, and then to look forward, to embrace the future with unity, committed to the journey of nation-building and development…. Our ancestors are watching. In this time we mourn the past and acknowledge our loss. Then we honour the struggle by moving forward, faces uplifted, unified as we develop our nation. (RDTL 2015b) This reading proved highly controversial for some in Timor-Leste and, despite its intentions, sat awkwardly with established notions of valorising the resistance. President Ruak, for example, argued that the ‘mourning-end’ was not acceptable to many whose relatives had not been found and were yet to be buried (Suara Timor Lorosa’e 2015). The Desluto was subsequently de-emphasised by the government as the year drew to a close. Taken together, the Desluto and other government positions of the time represented an attempt at a partial reformulation of East Timorese resistance identity. The need to reorient a national identity of resistance to one mobilised around the goals of national development had been openly emphasised by outgoing Prime Minister Gusmão in a speech in January 2015, arguing that the people of Timor-Leste needed to unite around development, ‘as their parents and grandparents … united around the cause of national liberation’. Linking the task with the sacrifices of older generations, Gusmão argued that this was the only way youth could ‘honour their memories and our collective history’. It is vital that we restore the pride in being Timorese. Not as before, in the sense of being an ‘identity of resistance’, but rather in accordance with the current need for national development and international affirmation, building a peaceful, tolerant and pluralistic Nation-State. (2015)

The distinctive character of East Timorese nationalism In examining the history of nationalism and national identity in Timor-Leste, it is instructive to consider the ways that East Timorese nationalism has diverged from Eurocentric models, which dominate nationalism studies, and to highlight ‘elements of local difference’ (Tønnesson and Antlöv 1996: 30) in discourses of East Timorese national identity. Though it shares much in common with other ‘postcolonial’ nationalisms seeking to unite diverse populations with a common colonial history and territory, several features of East Timorese nationalism are distinctive. One characteristic feature of East Timorese nationalism was born of necessity from late 1975 onwards. The looming Indonesian invasion necessitated a rapid transition from a ­conventional anti-colonialist narrative, mobilised against Portuguese colonialism, to one contesting Indonesia’s forced integration of the decolonising territory. This required a more complex narrative of the differential impact of Portuguese colonialism on the eastern half of Timor, and its role in creating a distinct political community over 450 years. This turn of events gave East Timorese nationalism a distinct character, in ways that discursively reinforced Portugal’s ongoing responsibility for the territory under international law; awaiting a valid act of self-determination to contest Indonesia’s forced integration. It would also lead to another distinctive feature of contemporary East Timorese nationalism: its accommodation of two generations of nationalists with different linguistic and cultural affiliations; the product of the successive colonial regimes. How these two generations of nationalist experience 80

Future of East Timorese nationalism

are reconciled, as different visions of national identity are brought to a compromise (Shamsul 2006: 346), remains a central part of the story of East Timorese nationalism. Chatterjee (1993) sees a ‘fundamental feature’ of Asian nationalisms in the notion of an inner spiritual domain that was ‘always sovereign’, despite the political dominance of colonial power. Xanana Gusmão’s communiques of the 1980s, exemplify these same themes in East Timorese nationalist thought and were encapsulated in his letter to the Australian Senator Gordon McIntosh: Despite admitting the influence of the Portuguese presence for many years, I must say that Maubere People never moved away from what they consider to be the roots of their identity, in all aspects that form the social essence of their personality, their way of thinking and acting. During the Portuguese colonial period, only a small group experienced the Portuguese influence in the fields of thought and culture, as a result of the situation itself; even so, most of that small group continues to hold strongly to what they feel to be inherent to their culture. (1988: 3) In Timor-Leste’s case, the notion of an inner spiritual domain of nationalism may also be seen in an emerging national ‘origin story’, with parallels to those of many indigenous T ­ imorese societies. Notably, certain features of Timorese societies allowed for the symbolic incorporation of new external authorities. By ceding political authority to a powerful outsider, or ‘stranger king’ (Sahlins 2009), the primacy of the inner domain of indigenous spiritual authority was taken to be preserved (Traube 1986). Associated with a dyadic conception of power, these encounters were transformative of the original polity, but preserved the ritual authority of the older community. As Fox argues, traditional accounts of this intervention involve ‘the arrival of an outsider who alters the structure of the society, often introducing a new political or religious dimension’ (2008: 202). This idea, for example, structured the Mambai understandings of their relationship with Portuguese colonial power, seen as the returning ‘younger brother’ (Traube 1986), whose ‘foreignness puts [them] in a position to mediate and keep the various competitive elements of the polity in check’ (Hagerdal 2012: 6). This feature of Timorese societies, evident even in Liurai rule itself, allowed for the symbolic incorporation of a foreign political ruler so long as the original ritual lords of the land were honoured and maintained (Hagerdal 2006: 76). Patterns of resistance regularly attended breaches of this social contract. Echoes of this traditional idea could be found in the UDT argument that Portuguese colonialism had represented a ‘contract’ or ‘pact’ between two sovereign nations (Fretilin-UDT 1986: 4). Distinctively, nationalist imaginings would replicate aspects of these traditional origin stories over time. The 2015 celebration of the ‘500-year’ arrival of Catholicism as the ‘affirmation of Timorese identity’ (RDTL 2015a) suggested dimensions of the same narrative in contemporary East Timorese nationalism. In these events, the Church and, to some degree, the Portuguese are depicted as outsiders whose arrival marks the beginning of a new political society, emerging from the preceding societies of Timorese reinos and ultimately ‘affirming’ a new national identity. Though seen by some domestic critics as a contradictory, or inadequately ‘post-colonial’ discourse, the place of Catholicism and Portugal and in the national story takes the symbolic role of the ‘outsider’ that reconstitutes the political community, thereby producing an ‘origin story’ for the nation, in ways that symbolically replicate parallel accounts in traditional societies. In 2015, the predominant focus on the Church, rather than the Portuguese arrival, helped frame this message to a younger generation of nationalists. 81

Michael Leach

The state’s accommodation with the Church reached a new peak in the same year with the signing of a Concordat with the Vatican, which firmly entrenched a distinctly Catholicised nation-of-intent in post-independence Timor-Leste. Another distinctive feature of East Timorese nationalism relates to this point. The ­failure of successive colonial regimes to recognise the importance of ritual leadership to East ­Timorese societies – focusing instead on co-opted or resistant political leadership – helped preserve traditional societies through consecutive colonial eras. The ‘inner domain’ of adat was a sustaining force in East Timorese identity and remains so today, particularly in rural Timor-Leste. Importantly, however, these indigenous societies were multiple and diverse. This posed a classic problem for anti-colonial nationalists in ethnically diverse societies, confronting the relative absence of precolonial ethnic unities, in what is now designated the ‘national’ territory. In the 1970s, early FRETILIN nationalists addressed this problem through the generic nationalist figure of the Maubere, which called upon traditional identity in a trans-communal manner, generically evoking the strengths of the indigenous societies, as nationalists sought to draw out a collective identity. Similarly, in the 1980s, Xanana Gusmão (2000 [1986]: 102) would refer to the multiple traditions of adat ‘guarded under the protection of the people’s luliks and constantly relived through oral tradition’ as the basis of an historical identity. Xavier do Amaral addressed the same issue in the 2001 election campaign when depicting national unity as equivalent to blood and marriage ties of between different groups. With new ideas of a national juramento (oath) and a national uma lulik (sacred house), contemporary East Timorese thinkers on nationalism, such as Trindade and Castro (2007), have meditated on exactly this same problem: how to make the traditional core of East Timorese societies a collective, national and nationalist object. By 2015, official nationalist discourses were drawing on the unifying presence of Catholicism to take this role, arguing that it found in traditional societies ‘a people with the sense of God (Maromak) and the sense of Sacred (Lulik)’ (Araújo 2015).

The future of East Timorese nationalism By 2015, political transitions saw a partial return to the politics of national unity. The new consensus politics nonetheless raised concerns over the absence of political opposition, as lone voices in civil society questioned official interpretations of the ‘500-year anniversary’ celebrations. Aspects of these new ‘official’ positions on national identity attracted criticism for ‘closing off’ debate, as did attempts to declare a ‘national mourning end’ (Desluto) in the interests of refocusing national identity around development goals. This raised the question of how new entrants into Timor-Leste’s politics would address debates over nationalism and national identity. In late 2015, the rise of a new political party, the People’s Liberation Party (Partido Libertasaun Popular – PLP), registered by former anti-Corruption C ­ ommissioner, Aderito Soares, and led by President Ruak, suggested the new consensus politics would soon meet challengers. Early statements from the PLP and President Ruak suggested strong criticisms of development policy, clientelism and corruption, but also a critique of the nation-building consensus, arguing for a renewed emphasis on teaching Indonesian and ­English in schools, alongside Tetun and Portuguese (Cleary 2016). A new generation of East Timorese leaders would likely enter on the old terms, but would bring new debates with them, as contestation of Timor-Leste’s national identity continued. Indeed, the era of ‘consensus democracy’ would prove short-lived, deteriorating rapidly in the 2017 election cycle. The breakdown of political unity following the 2017 elections demonstrated the fragility of the power-sharing era, and with it, its short-lived attempts to 82

Future of East Timorese nationalism

reframe contemporary East Timorese nationalism from a narrative of historical resistance to a forward-looking one mobilised around themes of national development. Whilst it is likely that the emphasis on the arrival of Catholicism as the ‘affirmation of Timorese identity’ resonated more strongly in some sectors of East Timorese society, it was not clear that these discourses had entered the national consciousness in the same way as the nationalist narrative of resistance to foreign occupation. Notably, behind the Geração Foun (new generation) still transitioning to power, a much larger younger generation followed. Indeed, with some 20% of the electorate voting for the first time, the 2017 elections saw the emergence of two new parties in parliament, the PLP and a youth-based party, Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan. Both were returned to power in the 2018 ‘early’ parliamentary elections, in a pre-election coalition with the CNRT. In a country with a median age of just under 19 years, and some 40% of the population under 15, this demographically dominant group would soon come of age, with their own ideas about the past and future of East Timorese nationalism. Fluent in the national language Tetun, conversant in Indonesian (but with declining proficiency in its written form) educated to varying degrees in Portuguese, and with the usual interest of young people in the global language of English, this group would bring its own perspectives to debates over national identity. These perspectives would likely replicate neither of its generational predecessors, or the competing ‘nations-of-intent’ of the past. Too young to have been protagonists in the independence struggle, the history wars would likely prove less ‘hot to handle’ for the next generation, opening the prospect for an evolution in postcolonial ideas of national identity and history, more removed from divisions of the past.

References Araújo, A. de (1975). Timorese elites, J. M. Alberto (trans.), J. Jolliffe and B. Reece (eds.). Canberra: J. Jolliffe and B. Reece. Araújo, R. M. de (2015). ‘The Church and its Timorese face: the role of the Church in the struggle for national liberation: memory and reflection’, Lahane Palace, 9 April, RDTL. http://timor-leste. gov.tl/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/The-role-of-the-Church-in-the-Struggle-for-National-­ Liberation-Memory-and-Reflection-9.04.2015.pdf Belo, C. X. (2012). A guerra de Manufahi (1911–1912), Baucau: Tipografia Diocesana Baucau. Chatterjee, P. (1993). The nation and its fragments: colonial and postcolonial histories. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Cleary, P. (2016). ‘E Timor civil society on skid row: president’, The Australian, 12 March. Fox, J. (2008). ‘Installing the ’outsider’ inside: the exploration of an epistemic Austronesian cultural theme and its social significance’, Indonesia and the Malay World, 36(105): 201–218. FRETILIN/UDT. (1986). Joint communique. Lisbon, 18 March. Gunn, G. C. (1999) Timor Loro Sae: 500 years, Macau: Livros do Oriente. Gusmão, X. (2000 [1986]). “A History That Beats in the Maubere Soul,” 20 May, in To resist is to win: the autobiography of Xanana Gusmão with selected letters and speeches, S. Niner (ed.). pp. 85–126, ­Melbourne: Aurora/David Lovell Publishing. Gusmao, X. (1988). ‘Letter to Senator Gordon McIntosh.’ Online. Available https://timorarchives. files.wordpress.com/2016/05/xanana-mcintosh-letter-1988-eng1.pdf Gusmão, X. (2015). Speech by the prime minister at the opening session of the international ­conference on ‘memory and national identity’, organised by the Timorese resistance archive and museum, 26 January. Online. Available http://timor-leste.gov.tl/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/­InternationalConference-Memory-and-National-Identity-26.01.14.pdf (accessed 2 November 2015). Hagerdal, H. (2006). ‘Serviao and Belu: colonial expressions and the geographic partition of Timor’, Studies on Asia III, 3(1): 49–64. Hagerdal, H. (2012). Lords of the land, lords of the sea: conflict and adaptation in early colonial Timor, 1600–1800. Leiden: KITLV.

83

Michael Leach Hicks, D. (2014). Rhetoric and the decolonization and the recolonization of East Timor. New York: Routledge. Hill, H. (2002). Stirrings of nationalism in East Timor: Fretilin 1974–1978: the origins, ideologies and strategies of a nationalist movement. Sydney: Otford Press. Hobsbawm, E. (1990). Nations and nationalism since 1780: programme, myth, reality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jannisa, G. (1997). The crocodile’s tears: East Timor in the making. Lund: Lund University Press. Kammen, D. (2010) ‘Subordinating Timor: central authority and the origins of communal identities in East Timor’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 166(2/3): 244–269. Leach, M. (2002). ‘Valorising the resistance: national identity and collective memory in East Timor’s constitution’, Social Alternatives, 21(3): 43–47. Leach, M. (2017). Nation-building and national identity in Timor-Leste. London: Routledge. Molnar, A. (2009). Timor Leste: politics, history, and culture. London: Routledge. RDTL. (2015a). ‘500th anniversary of the affirmation of the Timorese identity’, 1 January. Online. Available http://timor-leste.gov.tl/?p=13165&lang=en? (accessed 26 March 2016). RDTL. (2015b). ‘Celebrations of “National Mourning” from 04 Sep until 31 Dec’, Government of Timor-Leste. Online. Available http://timor-leste.gov.tl/?p=13180&lang=en (accessed 2 ­November 2015). Rotberg, R. (1966). ‘African nationalism: concept or confusion?’, Journal of Modern African Studies, 4(1): 33–46. Sahlins, M. (2009). ‘The stranger-king: or, elementary forms of the politics of life’, Indonesia and the Malay World, 36: 177–179. Shamsul, A.B. (1996). Nations-of-intent in Malaysia, in Asian forms of the nation, S. Tønnesson and H. Antlov (eds.), London: Curzon, pp. 323–347. Sousa, I.C. de (2001). ‘Portuguese colonialism and the problem of East Timorese nationalism’, ­Lusotopie, October: 184–194. Suara Timor Lorosa’e (2015). ‘Taur considera o desluto nacional um programa hipócrita’, 20 October. Traube, E. (1986). Cosmology and social life: ritual exchange among the Mambai of East Timor. ­Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Tønnesson, S. and Antlöv, H. (1996). Asian forms of the nation. London: Curzon Press. Trindade, J. and Castro, B. (2007). ‘Rethinking Timorese identity as a peacebuilding strategy: the Lorosae-Loromonu conflict from a traditional perspective’, final report for GTZ/IS. Dili: The European Union’s Rapid Reaction Mechanism Programme. Walsh, P. (1999). From opposition to proposition: the CNRT in transition. Melbourne: ACFOA.

84

Economics and development

7 AFTER THE OIL RUNS DRY Economics and government finances Charles Scheiner

Beginning in hope Timor-Leste restored its independence in 2002 with great hopes for the future. The illegal Indonesian occupiers had departed, leaving the country in ruins, but international good will and promises of assistance, together with a sense of national unity and the people’s commitment to build a democratic, prosperous nation, were reasons for optimism. Furthermore, many expected the oil and gas reserves under the sea between Timor-Leste and Australia to provide billions of dollars to jump-start economic development. Many Timor-Leste leaders, aware of what was happening in mineral-export-dependent countries around the world, hoped to learn from those experiences and avoid the ‘resource curse’ – the set of negative economic, political and social consequences that afflicts nearly all nations that rely on extractive industries. On their first day of independence, Timor-Leste ceded more than 10% of its oil and gas reserves to Australia, a confidence-building measure to allow development to proceed. Three years later, they established a sovereign wealth fund called the ‘Petroleum Fund’ (PF) to manage oil and gas revenue sustainably and transparently. The following year, their ­Petroleum Activities Law established a visible and consistent way to contract with oil companies, intended to avoid corruption and diversion of funds. The petroleum market gods smiled on Timor-Leste. When independence began in 2002, the price of oil was around US$24 per barrel. Capital costs for the oil industry were low, allowing the wells, pipeline and Australian gas liquefaction (liquefied natural gas – LNG) plant which would extract and process oil and gas from the largest field, Bayu-Undan, to be built at a reasonable cost. By the time oil production started in late 2005, prices had more than doubled, and when gas production began half a year later, oil was fetching around $70 per barrel on the international market. Japan, the principal market for Bayu-Undan LNG, was paying around $7 per million BTU, nearly double the price in 2002 (Santos 2018, Y-Charts, 2017). Bayu-Undan ran at full production for the next eight years, as oil prices continued to rise (interrupted by the global financial crisis in 2008–2009), and for a time it was the most profitable project in ConocoPhillips history. At the peak of production in 2012–2013, world oil prices exceeded $110/barrel, LNG sold for $16 per million BTU, and Timor-Leste was receiving more than three billion dollars per year (Figure 7.1). 87

Charles Scheiner

Figure 7.1  O  il and gas income peaked in 2012 and continues to fall. (EIA 2018, 2018a, ANPM 2018, CBTL 2018, MoF 2018a, 2018b)

By 2016, oil prices were stable again – at less than half of their previous levels, and gas prices had fallen to about $6 per million BTU. Timor-Leste produced 44% less oil and gas in 2017 than it did in 2012, and the government expects the last producing field to be dry by 2023. The country is fortunate to have sold most of its petroleum whilst prices were high. Between 2002 and 2018, Timor-Leste received US$22.1 billion in revenues from extracting oil and gas. According to government projections, it will receive less than two billion more before Bayu-Undan shuts down. Although Greater Sunrise, Buffalo and possible new fields might provide more revenues after 2022, government budget planning wisely does not include hypothetical income, although some policymakers continue to be entranced by the mirage of buried treasure waiting to be extracted. Payments from oil companies are deposited into the PF, invested overseas, and gradually withdrawn to finance the state budget. The Fund was worth $15.8 billion at the end of 2018. It has earned $4.3 billion from its investments since its inception, and $10.6 billion has been withdrawn to finance government activities (CBTL 2018). At the time of writing, the balance in the PF is lower than it had been in mid-2014, and it could be entirely spent within a decade (La’o Hamutuk 2015d updated). Saving money in the PF has kept the state solvent thus far, but it is not a long-term solution (La’o Hamutuk 2016b).

Averting some of the resource curse Paradoxically, people in most countries that depend on exporting non-renewable resources, such as oil or minerals, end up worse off than they would have been if those resources had never existed. In countries as wide-ranging as Venezuela, Congo, the USSR, Iraq, Nigeria, Mongolia, Ecuador, Sudan, Myanmar and Libya, the wealth from exporting mineral capital has brought poverty, war, environmental damage, corruption and economic stagnation. Although a few individuals and international companies benefit from extractive activities, local people have to live with the destructive consequences. Economists, political scientists, accountants and psychologists describe this ‘curse’ differently. This chapter uses the term to encompass a variety of negative political and economic impacts which occur when exporting natural wealth, such as oil and gas reserves, dominates a country’s economy and state revenues. 88

After the oil runs dry

Timor-Leste started to export oil after other countries had suffered from their resource dependency. Leaders and international advisors learned from those experiences and set up mechanisms to manage the oil industry and its revenue in a more transparent, streamlined and sustainable manner than most. Although these ameliorated or postponed some of the most devastating consequences of the ‘paradox of plenty,’ especially those due to deliberate malfeasance, they have not prevented the effects of well-intentioned but short-sighted decisions which may lead to long-term damage (Scheiner 2014).

Failing to diversify the economy Since oil and gas money comes in with little effort (and, in Timor-Leste, from out-of-sight offshore projects), it substitutes for economic activity that requires more planning and harder work. Even though the petroleum industry provides few jobs, its revenues allow the state to employ people, pay pensions, purchase imports and subsidize non-viable businesses, giving the appearance of economic growth. Although such spending builds support for populist politicians in the short term, it is not sustainable. When the petroleum sector dominates the economy, it attracts the most ambitious, creative and articulate policymakers, who persuade top leaders to spend millions on concept studies and proposals to develop their sector. They then leverage those proposals to ­multibillion-dollar infrastructure projects, such as Tasi Mane, without serious cost–benefit analysis. Less glamorous sectors, such as agriculture, tourism, small industries and food processing, become lost ‘opportunity costs’ due to the tilted playing field.

Ignoring the inevitable exhaustion of non-renewable wealth As long as oil and gas money continues to finance the state, there is no incentive to acknowledge that it will not last forever. In a democracy, leaders rarely plan beyond the next election. Pessimism is not an effective campaign strategy, and unelected candidates are powerless to address pending problems. As long as the PF remains solvent, politicians can avoid hard decisions to prepare for its inevitable bankruptcy. One example of the lack of serious planning is the often-cited National Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030, which has no costing or schedules. More a wish list than a serious plan, many of its components may not provide reasonable social or financial return on their investment (RDTL 2011). Policies are based on unsubstantiated dreams that more oil and gas will be discovered in the country’s small territory, or that eventual development of the Greater Sunrise field will make the country rich. In a minimalist gesture towards diversification, some policymakers look to mining, but Timor-Leste’s limited mineral wealth will never provide as much money as petroleum has already.

Spending without thinking When money comes in easily, it can go out without much thought. It is easier for the state to award contracts to foreign companies than to develop local contractors, to pay for scholarships at overseas universities than to build a solid educational system; to send ‘important’ people abroad for health care than to improve the quality of hospitals and clinics. From 2006 to 2012, Timor-Leste’s state spending increased fivefold, the second fastest in the world (World Bank 2018). Although this escalation has slowed somewhat, spending in 2016 89

Charles Scheiner

was still 36% higher than in 2012. Between the national elections in 2017 and 2018, TimorLeste failed to enact a state budget. The 2018 budget, hastily submitted by the new government eight months after the year had begun, appropriated less than previous budgets did. However, it may not indicate a change in direction, as many projects which are included in the plans and programme of the new government were omitted from the 2018 budget (MoF 2018a).1 In order to avoid depleting the PF even faster, Timor-Leste is financing some large infrastructure projects by borrowing money which it will have to repay with interest. Although the government has spent only $133 million from loans (from the World Bank, Asian Development Bank and Japan) through the end of 2018, it had planned to borrow more than a billion dollars in the next three years.2 If all the loans anticipated in the 2017 budget are taken out, the state will be obligated to repay more than $100 million each year (more than it spends on health care) between 2026 and 2037, and, if no oil money remains, the money will have to come from cuts in public services (La’o Hamutuk 2016h). Although some ‘front-loading’ of expenditures on physical infrastructure can be justified to bootstrap future economic development, more careful analysis is required to identify which projects will bring benefits greater than their costs and risks. Large public investments in petroleum infrastructure, airports, highways and container ports are unlikely to produce comparable long-term benefits, especially whilst human and rural infrastructure (education, health care, village roads, water and sanitation) remain underserved (GDS 2018d).

Macroeconomics In addition to running large trade deficits (see Figure 7.13), economies dominated by resource exports often experience inflation because the amount of money circulating is larger than the supply of goods, driving prices up. As raw materials get more expensive in Timor-Leste, it is harder for local industries to compete with those in other countries. Although Timor-Leste suffered ­double-digit annual inflation in 2011–2013 due to rapidly rising state spending, price increases have moderated since then. Because Timor-Leste has few industries which rely on imported inputs, inflation hit consumers harder than it hit businesses (GDS 2018). In recent years, the U.S. dollar (Timor-Leste’s official currency) has risen rapidly compared with the currencies which importers use to purchase goods, and therefore inflation has been low since 2014 (GDS 2018a).3

Violence and crime Timor-Leste has already survived the most obviously devastating consequences of resource wealth – foreign invasion and armed conflict. Although greed for oil and gas was a motivation for Indonesia to invade the country in 1975,4 that war is over and Timor-Leste ­leaders and citizens are deeply aware that the damage from renewing conflict would be much greater than its spoils. Petroleum was significant in Timor-Leste’s intermittently argumentative ­d iplomacy with Australia, but the 2018 Boundary Treaty resolved the principal issue of national sovereignty, although some petroleum-related questions remain to be decided. Petroleum does not dominate the country’s foreign policy. Furthermore, enough oil wealth has been distributed within the country to avoid insurrection, and the remaining reserves are too small to attract potential invaders. The country has also apparently succeeded in avoiding widespread misappropriation of public funds for private gain. Thanks to transparent systems to manage petroleum revenues and contracts, very little money has been siphoned off to private bank accounts. Although the Anti-­Corruption Commission, Transparency Portal,5 procurement processes and judicial system all have room for 90

After the oil runs dry

improvement, they have not yet seen massive diversions of government funds; every known case of corruption has been less than $4 million, about what the state spends in one day (MoF 2017b). If there have been larger thefts connected with procurement or infrastructure projects, they have not yet come to light, although Timor-Leste pays far more for such projects than neighbouring countries do. However, the allocation of a disproportionate share of public funds to key constituencies (such as politicians, veterans and those working in the petroleum sector) has generated a growing popular backlash against, for example, the lifetime pensions which former office-holders receive as soon as they leave their positions.

Postponing the inevitable In the early 2000s, one of the most often prescribed immunizations for the ‘resource curse’ was to manage oil revenues transparently, simply, and with an eye towards the future. Recognizing that there is no logical connection between the amount of petroleum revenue a government receives during a given year (which fluctuates with project cycles, global market prices and production rates) and how much money a state needs to spend, the World Bank and others encouraged Timor-Leste to establish a sovereign wealth fund the Petroleum Fund) which would decouple current oil revenues from state expenditures (see Figure 7.3). The PF is invested outside Timor-Leste, primarily in bonds and stocks, and its earnings were expected to support state spending after the oil and gas was exhausted (La’o Hamutuk 2005). Timor-Leste established this system in 2005, after extensive public consultation and before significant oil and gas money started to come in. At the time, the nation was a world leader in the responsible management of oil revenues, and the Petroleum Fund Law and Petroleum Activities Law (which defined how Timor-Leste would contract with oil companies) required significantly more transparency than the global Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative (EITI), which was being developed simultaneously. In 2010, Timor-Leste became the third country in the world certified as EITI-compliant. However, the annual EITI reports take 2–3 years to prepare, by which time much of the data they include have already been published by the Central Bank (CBTL, which manages the PF), the Ministry of Finance and/or the National Petroleum and Minerals Authority (ANPM) (La’o Hamutuk 2005a, 2018, 2018f, ANPM 2016, 2018, CBTL 2018). In 2011, Timor-Leste revised the PF law to allow investments with more risk and to make it easier to withdraw unsustainable amounts. Nevertheless, the basic structure remains intact, even as the PF shrinks. The Petroleum Fund Law specifies that all income from oil and gas activities must be deposited into the PF and that each state budget withdraws enough to cover the ‘non-oil deficit’ between appropriated expenditure and non-oil revenues. A formula specifies the recommended maximum annual withdrawal – the ‘Estimated Sustainable Income’ (ESI) – based on expected future oil revenues and investment return. However, the ESI has gradually been downgraded from a rule to a benchmark to a guideline and is largely ineffective. Governments have withdrawn more than the ESI in every year since 2009 (except for 2013, when unspent excess withdrawals the previous year were carried over). Budgets since 2015 have withdrawn double the ESI (Figure 7.2). Figure 7.3 shows the financial flows involved with the PF during 2012, when oil revenues were at their peak, in millions of U.S. dollars. ConocoPhillips, Eni and their partners in the Bayu-Undan and Kitan projects extract, process and sell oil and gas. After repaying investment costs and deducting operating costs, capital expenditures and profit, the remainder is divided 90% to Timor-Leste and 10% to Australia. Timor-Leste’s share is deposited into the PF (CBTL 2018, MoF 2012). 91

Charles Scheiner

Figure 7.2  H istoric and planned withdrawals from the Petroleum Fund. (MoF 2018a)

Figure 7.3  Timor-Leste’s petroleum revenue flows in 2012

92

After the oil runs dry

Figure 7.4  Sources of state budget revenue during 2017: $1,299 million total. (MoF 2018)

The annual state budget withdraws money from the PF which, together with other revenues, is spent to pay for state activities. Although petroleum revenues have declined significantly (in 2017 Timor-Leste’s received $422 million, one-eighth of what it got in 2012), state spending has not (Figure 7.4). In addition to revenues from oil companies, the PF’s investments earn interest and dividends, which were intended to replenish the PF after oil extraction ends. Before 2012, nearly all of the PF was in U.S. and other government bonds; it was the only sovereign wealth fund in the world which did not drop in value during the 2008 global financial crisis. However, 40% is now invested in international stocks (equities), and returns go up and down with the optimism of stock traders. Until 2018, the Ministry of Finance expected that the nominal (before adjusting for inflation) annual return on PF investments would be 5.7%, but it has rarely earned that much and the Ministry lowered the ­benchmark to 3.9%. Investment returns were negative in 2015 and 2018. In 2017, the PF earned a record $1,612 million, although four-fifths of that was unrealized and PF investments lost $504 million during 2018. The Ministry of Finance predicts that PF earnings will be around $620 million/year over the next few years. As planned state spending is more than double that amount and other revenues will be less than $230 million/year, the balance in the PF will continue to drop. La’o Hamutuk estimates that if the government implements all the projects it has announced, the PF could be entirely spent by 2028 (La’o Hamutuk 2015b, 2015c, 2015d, with updated analysis). It will be a difficult transition. In 2017, the PF paid for 83% of state spending, which is not sustainable. The Ministry of Finance does not envision an alternative, but expects the PF to pay for 82% of the budget until 2022, the last year they predict (MoF 2018a). Although Timor-Leste may have protected itself against billion-dollar-scale corruption, this cash-rich government with limited experience and safeguards is an inviting target for scammers and thieves. One who succumbed to temptation was Bobby Boye, a petroleum tax advisor hired by Norway and the Ministry of Finance. Boye claimed that oil companies had short-changed Timor-Leste by billions of dollars, and the Ministry billed them for more than $300 million in arrears. The companies paid to avoid escalating penalties and appealed the assessments (La’o Hamutuk 2018d). Boye, riding high, convinced Ministry officials to contract with the U.S. law firm Opus & Best to revise the petroleum tax laws, paying them $3.5 million. But Opus & Best was a fake company consisting only of Bobby Boye, who was charged with wire fraud in U.S. court. 93

Charles Scheiner

Figure 7.5  W  here the Petroleum Fund gets its money. Projections after 2017 are by the Ministry of Finance. (CBTL 2018, ANPM 2018, MoF 2018a, La’o Hamutuk 2018d)

In 2015, Boye pled guilty and was sentenced to six years in prison, although he continued to protest his sentence from behind bars. No Timor-Leste officials have been charged in relation to his scheme (La’o Hamutuk 2018b). In 2016, Timor-Leste and the oil companies settled the back tax disputes, and the companies began deducting unjustified prior assessments from ongoing tax payments. Although the total amount returned has not been made public, it is around $275 million. As Figure 7.5 shows, this debacle increased petroleum revenues whilst they were at their peak, and made them fall even faster as they decline. Timor-Leste has already received the great majority of the income it will get from the three oil and gas fields which have been developed, and will have to depend on other revenues, including PF investment returns, in the future.

Will more oil be recovered? Like most addicts, Timor-Leste will need another fix to feed its habit after Bayu-Undan is used up. The only large confirmed gas and oil reserve is Greater Sunrise. Discovered in 1974, Greater Sunrise has been a principal factor in a prolonged, bitter dispute with Australia that was mostly resolved with the signing of a Maritime Boundary Treaty in March 2018. However, Sunrise development is still stalled because Timor-Leste’s government wants to liquefy its natural gas in Timor-Leste, whilst the oil companies say that it is more lucrative to process it in Australia. After both governments and the Sunrise Joint Venture agree on the development methodology, Timor-Leste will receive 70%–80% of the government ‘upstream’ revenues from extracting Sunrise gas and oil, which some hope will bring in $40 billion to the state (­Strating 2017), but this seems overly optimistic. Increased development costs and lower world gas prices are likely to reduce the government take, perhaps to less than $10 billion. In any event, such revenues are probably at least a decade away, and if Timor-Leste subsidizes onshore gas processing through the Tasi Mane Project, there may not be much money to pay for other state activities (La’o Hamutuk 2016e, 2018c). 94

After the oil runs dry

Timor-Leste’s petroleum officials, including the ANPM and the TimorGAP state-owned oil company, fervently believe that Timor-Leste’s land and seas, a ‘proven petroliferous zone,’ contain undiscovered oil and gas fields (da Silva 2016, Monteiro 2016). However, the most geologically promising parts of Timor-Leste’s maritime territory have been explored for decades, and most of the areas which are now ‘vacant’ (see Map 7.1) were relinquished by former contract-holders who found nothing worth extracting. Kitan is the only commercial discovery since 1995, when Bayu-Undan was found. Timor-Leste’s last bidding round for new contracts was in 2006; the next one has been repeatedly postponed during the past six years (Rigzone 2015, Scheiner 2017). The only contracts awarded in the past 12 years have been no-bid ‘direct awards’ to TimorGAP without an open process: JPDA 11–106, TLEA S0–15-01 and the first onshore contracts since the Portuguese era, TL OT-17–08 and TL OT-17–09. TimorGAP and its partners have not found any commercially exploitable fields in these areas, although prospecting continues (La’o Hamutuk 2018e, Scheiner 2017). Under the 2018 Boundary Treaty, Timor-Leste will receive all of the remaining upstream revenues from Bayu-Undan, 10% of which had previously gone to Australia. It will also receive revenues from the formerly shutdown Buffalo oil field, previously considered in Australian territory. However, additional revenues from these two fields will total less than $2 billion, barely enough to cover one year of the state budget.

Map 7.1  T  imor-Leste areas currently or formerly under oil and gas exploration contracts. (ANPM 2018a, La’o Hamutuk 2006, 2018e)

95

Charles Scheiner

One consequence of the ‘resource curse’ – as well as of internalized colonialism and dependence on foreign assistance from 2000 through 2005 – is to hope for ‘manna from heaven,’ a kind of cargo cult (Bovensiepen 2016). As promises of future oil revenues ­become less credible, some expect mining to underwrite the state. In 2016, the National Petroleum Authority became the National Petroleum and Minerals Authority (ANPM), Parliament began debating a mining code (Lao Hamutuk 2017), the government started to establish a national mining company, and Timor-Leste agreed to subsidize a project to mine limestone and export cement. Although the most promising mineral deposits in the country are likely to be sand, gravel, limestone and marble, some believe that valuable metals or gems are waiting to be discovered. Timor-Leste has limited capacity and will to protect its environment and local communities, and onshore mining could bring a new set of negative impacts. In any event, it can never be as lucrative as oil and gas has been (La’o Hamutuk 2007g).

How the state spends its money Timor-Leste has finite resource wealth and limited sources of revenue, so it needs to maximize value for money. Wise budget allocations can improve people’s quality of life today whilst building for the future by investing in human resources and appropriate physical infrastructure. However, in recent years, nearly half of public spending has been on large construction projects, many of which may have few lasting benefits (La’o ­H amutuk 2015a) (Figure 7.6).

Figure 7.6  B  udget appropriations in 2016 and 2017.  (MoF 2016, 2017)

96

After the oil runs dry

Timor-Leste uses standard budgeting categories and appropriated these amounts for 2018: • •

• • •

Salaries and wages ($207 million): Public employee (but not consultants and advisors) salaries, overtime and benefits. Goods and services ($346 million): Materials and services (consultants, maintenance, travel, etc.) usually purchased by tender and contract. The largest components are professional services, operational expenses and generator fuel. Minor capital ($5 million): Equipment, such as vehicles, computers or furniture. Development capital ($394 million): Construction of infrastructure, such as roads, buildings, ports and airports. Public transfers ($325 million): Disbursements to individuals (pensions or social assistance) and to institutions (Special Economic Zone in Oecusse [ZEESM], TL Cement, and petroleum agencies).

Figure 7.7 shows how revenues and expenditures by category have shifted since independence was restored in 2002. Development capital spending was high in 2011, 2012 and 2014 for electricity infrastructure, and in 2016 for roads, Tibar port and Suai airport. Public transfers were the largest budget category in 2017, receiving 33% of all spending. Some were paid to individuals (veterans, elderly, widows, pension recipients, disaster victims), but most went to state agencies (ZEESM, petroleum agencies, local government, etc.) which are outside the transparency requirements applied to other state spending. During 2014–2017, the government transferred a billion dollars to such agencies, more than 50 times as much as they generated in revenue. However, in 2018 the new government sharply reduced ZEESM transfers forcing it to spend money retained from past transfers and now says that ZEESM will return to normal budgetary mechanisms. Finance Ministry reports do not show when or if the transferred money has been expended, or what it was used for. If the money is not spent by the end of the fiscal year, it remains in the recipient’s bank account. Some agencies, including TimorGAP and the ANPM, publish financial reports (often showing retained earnings), but others, including the ZEESM Authority, do not reveal how much they have kept (MoF 2017, TimorGAP 2018, ANPM 2017). Actual spending failed to keep up with the rapid growth in appropriations in 2­ 012–2013, when several capital projects were delayed (see Figure 7.8). Since 2014, planning and

Figure 7.7  State revenues and spending 2002–2018.  (MoF 2015, 2016, 2017, 2017a, 2018a)

97

Charles Scheiner

Figure 7.8  A nnual budgeted and executed spending. (MoF 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018a, 2018b)

budgeting have improved, and overall budget execution rates are now around 81% for capital and 92% for recurrent spending.6 Between 2009 and 2014, recurrent spending rose about 17% each year, but it has since stabilized due to lower fuel costs, budget cuts and more efficient management (La’o Hamutuk 2016). Although the ESI rule for PF withdrawals was originally intended to apply to the entire budget, a revisionist approach to preserving the PF would allow withdrawals above the ESI to ‘front-load’ capital investment, whilst keeping recurrent spending below ESI to improve sustainability. However, executed recurrent spending overtook ESI in 2014 and continues to exceed it greatly. Timor-Leste is still grappling with financial management. Spending starts slowly each year, as procedures for the new budget and programmes are put into place. In a normal year, spending is relatively steady from April through October, but disbursements soar towards the end of the fiscal year, especially for goods and services, minor capital and development capital, as a spend-it-or-lose-it mindset prevails.7 Other peaks represent power plant purchases, veterans’ payments and lump-sum transfers to the ZEESM in Oecusse. No 2018 state budget was enacted in 2017, so the Seventh Government (which served from September 2017 until June 2018) reduced or deferred spending. The Eighth Government then weathered a cash-flow ‘crisis’ until Parliament approved an extraordinary $140 million transfer from the PF in August 2018 (La’o Hamutuk 2018a). The difficulties stemming from this temporary inability to spend petroleum wealth are an omen of the less tractable absence of money when the PF no longer exists, but few political leaders acknowledged this, perhaps because it will not happen until the mandate of the Ninth or Tenth Government. Figure 7.6 shows physical infrastructure receives the largest share of the budget. However, the sectors most essential to developing human infrastructure – education and health care – remain severely short-changed. Only 8% of Timor-Leste’s 2018 budget is allocated to education, half of the 16% average for Least Developed Countries (World Bank 2018). Timor-Leste spent less than 6% of its budget on health; the global average is 10% (WHO 2018a). After the long, brutal occupation ended in 1999, Timor-Leste’s population grew more than 3% per year, faster than any other country. Although the rate has dropped to 2.1%, the majority of the population is under 20 years old (GDS 2017a). This post-war ‘baby boom’ strains the education system today and will dominate the job market in coming years. It will reverberate with another surge when boomers have children. Unfortunately, Timor-­Leste’s appropriations for education and health are lower than they were four years 98

After the oil runs dry

ago, and inadequate education and nutrition can permanently damage people’s lives and livelihoods (Figure 7.9). Agriculture provides most people’s livelihoods, but inefficient practice and difficulty of accessing markets make it challenging for farmers to feed and sustain their families. Nevertheless, government support for this sector is very small, having steadily declined since 2015, reflecting a Dili-centric bias against subsistence farming and rural life. Although the agriculture sector employs a hundred times as many people as the petroleum sector, it now gets about one-tenth as much public funding. The Tasi Mane petroleum infrastructure project on the south coast includes a supply base for offshore oil operations, an oil refinery, an LNG plant, onshore oil and offshore gas pipelines, two airports, two seaports and a 156-km highway. Although $253 million has already been spent on this project, the author estimates that 90% of its capital costs have never been mentioned in budget documents, and no outside investors have publicly expressed interest. Table 7.1 includes the main components, in millions of U.S. dollars.

Figure 7.9  Appropriations for education, health, agriculture and veterans. (MoF 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018a)

Table 7.1  Capital costs of the Tasi Mane Project Component

Location

Status

Spent through Budgeted Estimated total Percent 2017 2018–2023 capital cost budgeted

Airport Supply base Highway Airport Oil refinery   and pipelines Gas pipeline,   LNG plant and port TOTAL

Suai Suai Suai-Beaçu Viqueque Betano

Constructed Tender pending 1/5 built Not started Pending design

60 5 173 0 3

22 747 137 0 0

85 850 1,700 60 1,500

96 88 18 0 0

Sunrise  Beaçu

Pending OK from   companies and Australia

12

0

6,000

0

253

905

10,195

9

Source: MoF (2018a, 2018b), ACIL (2016) and La’o Hamutuk (2008, 2016a, 2016e, 2016g, 2018h).

99

Charles Scheiner

Figure 7.10  Oil and non-oil GDP per capita, current prices. (GDS 2017)

Tasi Mane has become controversial because of its impacts on local communities, but issues of national concern – total cost, financial and social return on investment, limited employment potential, sources of feedstocks and markets for its products – are just beginning to receive serious public attention. Many decision-makers defer to the project managers, the Ministry of Petroleum and Minerals Resources and the TimorGAP national oil company. Although the maritime boundary debate with Australia has been resolved, there is still no agreement on where Greater Sunrise gas will be liquefied. Nevertheless, Tasi Mane is accelerating (La’o Hamutuk 2018c, 2018g). In late 2018, the government signed agreements to purchase 57% of the Greater Sunrise joint venture for $650 million, which will increased the capital costs of the project by more than $5 billion but empower Timor-Leste to decide where to process the gas. The project has powerful backers who make grand promises and the technical and financial issues are complicated, causing few amongst Parliament, development partners or civil society to raise serious but necessary questions.

This is what the economy looks like From 2005 through 2014, petroleum activities dominated Timor-Leste’s gross domestic product (GDP) (Figure 7.10). Although ‘non-oil’ GDP comprised less than one-fifth of the total during the peak petroleum years, it may soon be all that remains. From 2007 through 2011, as state spending grew, ‘non-oil’ GDP also increased, surpassing inflation and population growth. Nearly all its growth has been in construction and public administration, which are primarily driven by the state spending oil money (see Figure 7.11). The productive sectors of agriculture and manufacturing have not increased since 2003 (GDS 2017). GDP counts dollars (not people), so it gives a misleading impression of how the economy interacts with the citizenry. It includes non-productive activities such as disaster recovery or higher oil extraction costs, imputes ‘rent’ for people living on or farming their traditional lands, and isn’t influenced significantly by the fortunes or misfortunes of poor people. Figure 7.12 shows that only about one-quarter of the working age population have formal employment, roughly divided amongst the public sector, the private sector and self-­ employment in very small businesses. Another quarter are students, a quarter work as subsistence farmers or fishers, and the remainder are not working for pay, although many of them do unpaid domestic work and other informal jobs. 100

After the oil runs dry

Figure 7.11  Sectoral contributions to non-oil GDP per capita, current prices. (GDS 2017)

Figure 7.12  H  ow 700,000 Timor-Leste people aged 15–64 years earn their livelihoods.8 (MoF 2017, GDS 2015, 2017a, 2018b)

When (some) people have money but there is little local productive capacity, they use it to purchase imports from overseas, as does the state itself. Since 2012, Timor-Leste has imported around $560 million worth of goods every year, most of which are bought by the public sector or state-paid individuals. Non-oil goods exports (nearly all coffee) average $18 million/year. About 32% of imported goods come from Indonesia, followed by China (17%), Singapore (12%) and Hong Kong (11%) (GDS 2018b). Although exports could increase, the most effective way to reduce the trade deficit is to reduce imports, and about 40% of the goods imported for consumption could be produced in Timor-Leste if agriculture, food processing and small manufacturing were improved. 101

Charles Scheiner

Figure 7.13  E xternal balance of payments. (CBTL 2017, 2018)

Timor-Leste also imports about $600 million in services each year, mainly for travel, construction and services to government. Service exports total about $75 million, mainly for travel and hospitality sold to non-residents (CBTL 2017). By increasing tourism and reducing the use of foreign contractors and advisors, the services balance could be improved significantly. Once the PF is gone, Timor-Leste will not be able to sustain such unbalanced trade. If local production has not expanded, many people will have no way to obtain daily necessities (Figure 7.13). Import dependency for consumption may be leading to misguided policy decisions. In 2016, Timor-Leste paid $130 million towards building a new container port in Tibar, just west of Dili. The port, which is a Public-Private Partnership with Bolloré Africa, is designed to handle about five times as much traffic as current levels, although planners estimate that 97% of departing containers will still be empty ten years from now (Hamburg Port Consulting, 2013).9 In addition to consuming money and disrupting the local community, the new port effectively subsidizes imports, making it harder for local production to compete (La’o Hamutuk 2016c, 2016d). Timor-Leste’s leaders have also embraced globalization. The country hopes to join the World Trade Organization and Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) soon, which will involve free trade agreements with suppliers of 80% of Timor-Leste’s imports. In 2016, Timor-Leste revised its private investment law to attract foreign companies and joined the International Centre for the Settlement of Investment Disputes, surrendering its power to regulate investors. As local farmers and businesses struggle, national policies appear to prioritize solutions from outside the country, even though foreign investors will repatriate more money than they invest (La’o Hamutuk 2016i). Local businesspeople have begun to complain that foreign contractors, imported labour and small immigrant businesses (kiosks, retail stores) are infringing on the local private sector. Unfortunately, these protectionist reactions sometimes verge on racism, without analysing why local companies and families are unable to compete with visitors. Although the TimorLeste private sector worries that the country could ‘fall to foreigners in 20 years’ (Timor Agora 2017), neither consumers nor government prioritize purchasing locally made products. 102

After the oil runs dry

Domestic private investment and employment are still very limited, with most business owners choosing to take profits out, rather than to reinvest them to grow their businesses. During 2016, businesses spent only 9% of gross revenues on labour, and private-sector employment was less than it had been in 2012. Wages in the two largest sectors, construction and trade, averaged about $184/month, only a little above the $115/month statutory minimum. Timor-Leste businesses invested only $49 million in capital expansion, whilst extracting more than $467 million (21% of revenues) in profits (GDS 2018b).

How are the people doing The lives of nearly all Timor-Leste people are much better than they were in the 1990s. No foreign soldiers are torturing and killing them, and most have rebuilt the homes that were destroyed in 1999. Maternal and child mortality rates are half of what they were 15 years ago, and some preventable diseases, such as malaria, appear to be under control. People travel and speak their minds freely, and democratically elected political leaders purport to act in the public interest. National electricity and road systems connect major population centres, and most of the country, especially urban areas, has mobile phone service and access to TV and radio (GDS 2018c). In the 2018 update from the UN Development Programme, Timor-Leste’s Human Development Index (HDI) dropped slightly, and it ranked 132 of 189 countries. The slight increase in statistically extrapolated life expectancy was less than the drop in gross national income due to falling petroleum revenues, whilst education indicators were unchanged. Between 2010 and 2017, Timor-Leste’s HDI increased by only 0.13% per year. By comparison, other Medium Human Development Countries increased their HDI by 1.15% per year, and the nine countries which did worse than Timor-Leste are at war (UNDP 2018). Child malnutrition rates remain very high, and education and health indicators are far below average. Although a portion of Dili’s population (especially government officials and contractors, and their families and employees) is doing fairly well, most of the billions of dollars in oil money has not reached the majority. According to the government, 42% of the population lived in poverty in 2014 (down from 50% in 2007, but about the same as in 2004), and 45% of children were malnourished (down from 49% in 2007) (GDS 2016), although Timor-Leste’s children remain amongst the most stunted in the world (WHO 2018). In Dili, 29% of people were living below the national poverty line in 2014, but more than half of the people in four rural municipalities lived in poverty (GDS 2016).10 More recent information about inequality is limited, but in 2011 the top tenth of the population had 14 times the income of the poorest tenth, whose household income was about $50 per month (GDS 2013). In 2016, 86% of people in Dili were amongst the wealthiest 40% of Timor-­ Leste’s population, and 3% were in the poorest fifth. In Ermera, only 15% were amongst the richest 40%, whilst in Oecusse, 46% were in the bottom 20% (GDS 2018c, table 2.6). Low spending on education is reflected in how well children learn. Many schools have high absentee rates, large class sizes, double or triple sessions due to inadequate facilities, and a shortage of experienced teachers, books and furniture. Political controversies about language (Portuguese had been the official language of instruction, but many teachers and parents do not speak it), preferred schools (a few Portuguese-language CAFE public schools get far more resources than other public schools), and curriculum (a revision was implemented in 2015, reversed in 2017 and reinstated in 2018) have reduced the effectiveness of schooling, as do long distances (and no public transport) between homes and schools, especially in 103

Charles Scheiner

rural areas. Although enrolment levels have improved, even those who graduate appear to be ­below international levels in problem-solving, critical thinking, reading and numeracy. One contributing factor to inadequacies in public health and education is that ­decision-makers’ families do not use them. The government spends several million dollars every year to send ‘important’ people abroad for medical treatment, but most citizens have no access to this. Similarly, parents with some money can send their children to Catholic schools, and more affluent ones join expatriates at several international schools in Dili. ­Donors and government pay for overseas university studies for the most promising students – usually those who have had better primary and secondary school opportunities.

Prospects for the future Timor-Leste’s greatest resource is its people. Preceding generations endured trial by fire during the Japanese and Indonesian occupations, each of which killed a large fraction of the population and brought unspeakable hardships upon everyone. Nevertheless, many parts of Timor-Leste culture remain intact even after 500 years of foreign rule, and the bonds uniting most families are stronger than the tensions which could divide society. Defying the odds, the 17-year-old nation is peaceful, democratic and mostly unified. Although political rhetoric is occasionally ad hominem, polarized or confrontational, the citizenry and politicians resolved the 2017–2018 ‘constitutional crisis’ through an early election – without violence, violating the Constitution or breaking the law. One need only look to South Sudan, Yemen, Syria or South Africa to appreciate what the Timor-Leste people have accomplished. The strength of Timor-Leste society will be tested once again when the oil money is gone. That ordeal will be tougher if current trends continue and the remaining resources are not effectively used to prepare for the non-oil era (La’o Hamutuk 2016f ). Although some opportunities were missed during the past decade through misspent money and misdirected policies, it may not be too late to recover. If Timor-Leste’s leaders work towards building an economy based on local skills and local needs, the country will be better prepared for the non-oil era (Scheiner 2011). It will not be the upper-middle-income petro-state envisioned in the Strategic Development Plan – but it may be able to avoid economic collapse. The social fabric is resilient enough to survive lower levels of state spending. There is no magic solution to Timor-Leste’s economic future, and this author does not have all the answers (Scheiner 2015). However, a few guidelines could improve prospects for the next several decades, including: •

•

•

Strengthen human resources by investing more in education, health care, child nutrition, rural water supply and sanitation. The last two generations of Timor-Leste children have been challenged by war, destruction and reconstruction; the next ones need to be better prepared for the future. Improve agricultural production and processing, with the goal of nourishing the citizenry, providing employment and reducing imports. Timor-Leste is primarily an agricultural country and rarely uses expensive and often toxic pesticides, hybrids, genetically modified organisms and chemical fertilizers. These strengths can be maintained, even as productivity, value-added processing and distribution are reinforced. Develop small industries to produce for local needs, such as wood and plastic furniture, candles, food, water, juice and other simple manufactured products. Timor-Leste companies will not be able to compete for overseas markets with highly mechanized, large-scale or sweatshop factories, but they can provide many things that their workers, 104

After the oil runs dry

•

•

•

•

•

neighbours and families buy every day. Selected exports are also appropriate, but they should be for niche markets (such as organic produce) rather than competing for a tiny percentage of a global commodity. Timor-Leste has great tourism potential but should not try to compete with luxury resorts in Bali for high-end tourists. Preserve the country’s attractions – nature, history, environment, culture – whilst upgrading tourism infrastructure to enhance the experience of those visiting the country. Use money effectively, avoiding waste and corruption and obtaining maximum value for each dollar spent. Timor-Leste’s petroleum wealth belongs equally to every citizen, not disproportionately to those who are linked to people in power. Carefully analyse spending on major infrastructure projects, ensuring that the benefits to the public are greater than the costs and risks. Be wary of exploitation by foreign companies or special interests, especially when public funds subsidize a project. Invest the country’s limited finite wealth in sectors and projects which will produce social and economic returns. Don’t borrow money or enter into ‘partnerships’ which impose obligations on future governments or generations after the oil is used up. Plan for the longer term future, not just for one electoral cycle. Although the intergenerational right to non-renewable wealth was a fundamental principle in creating the PF in 2005, it has largely been forgotten. Planning is more than promoting a vision – it includes analysing the costs, economic viability, public investment, timetable, preconditions, social and environmental impacts, alternatives, suppliers, customers, beneficiaries, possible scenarios and return of every project. Listen to the people. Unfortunately, foreign occupiers rejected consultation (asking people what they need and want) in favour of socialization (telling people what the state is going to do to/for them). People should be empowered to provide for their own needs and those of their communities, rather than waiting for the state or outside generosity.

None of this will be easy, but all of it is possible and necessary. It is the next phase of the struggle for independence.

Notes 1 The 2018 budget also anticipates higher oil revenues in coming years, due to changes in forecasting methodology, and its projections do not comply with the ‘prudent’ spirit of the Petroleum Fund Law. 2 Delayed budgets for 2018 and 2019 reduced loan forecasts, but borrowing could be even larger if intended projects are built. 3 A dollar in 2015 was worth 14,000 Indonesian rupiah, 65% more than in 2011. 4 Australian government documents verify that the desire for petroleum reserves was a significant factor in Australia’s support for Indonesia’s invasion (McGrath 2017). 5 Timor-Leste’s government posts data on income, revenues and contracts at http://www.transparency.gov.tl/english.html, but it is not always accessible or up to date (MoF 2018a, 2018b). 6 Recurrent spending includes salaries, goods and services, and public transfers except for the portion used for infrastructure construction by the ZEESM authority. 7 Although a few autonomous agencies and special funds can roll over money received in a given year, ministries and most government entities cannot. Salary outlays are doubled in December because workers get a ‘13th month’ bonus payment. 8 This graph includes estimates and data from several sources and is consistent with the 2015 Census. Unfortunately, international reporting methodologies are designed for economies with a small informal sector and don’t consider subsistence food producers part of the ‘labour force,’ leading to meaningless unemployment numbers. Similarly, some international agencies use ‘non-oil’ GDP

105

Charles Scheiner instead of total GDP and therefore publish inconsistent statistics on sectoral spending as a fraction of GDP (La’o Hamutuk 2015e). 9 These figures are from traffic projections which underlay planning for the port a few years ago. The relevant authorities refuse to make more recent projections available. 10 Oecusse (63%), Ermera (57%), Covalima (53%) and Bobonaro (52%). In four other municipalities (there are 13 in total), more than 43% of people lived in poverty.

References Many documents are referenced on both La’o Hamutuk and official websites, as the latter don’t always work or endure. All were accessed in September 2018. ACIL Allen Consulting (2016). ‘Tasi Mane Project: Potential implications for the economy of ­Timor-Leste’ report to TimorGAP http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/Sunrise/2018/ACIL%20 Tasi%20Mane%20Study%20Final%20Report%2020160830.pdf. ANPM (Autoridade Nacional do Petróleo e Minerais; National Petroleum and Minerals Authority) (2016). Annual Report for 2015. http://www.anpm.tl/2015-annual-report/ or http://www.­ laohamutuk.org/Oil/PetRegime/ANP2014/ANPAR2015en.pdf ANPM (Autoridade Nacional do Petróleo e Minerais; National Petroleum and Minerals ­Authority) (2017). Annual Report for 2017. http://www.anpm.tl/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/­Annual-­Report-2017ENGLISH.pdf or http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/PetRegime/ANP2014/ANPMAR2017en.pdf ANPM (2018). JPDA production and revenue data. http://web01.anpm.tl/webs/anptlweb.nsf/­ pgLafaekDataGasListHTML and http://www.anpm.tl/publish-what-you-pay/ ANPM (2018a). Interactive map of Timor Sea contract areas. http://web.anpm.tl/webs/anptlweb.nsf/ pgLafaekMap Bovensiepen, J. (2016). ‘Visions of prosperity and conspiracy in Timor-Leste’, Focaal—Journal of Global and Historical Anthropology 75 (2016): 75–88. CBTL (Central Bank of Timor-Leste) (2017). Balance of Payments 2006–2016. Dili: CBTL. http:// www.bancocentral.tl/uploads/­documentos/documento_1488428367_2552.pdf CBTL (2018). Petroleum Fund Annual, Quarterly and Monthly Reports. Dili: CBTL. http://www.­ bancocentral.tl/en/go/publications-key-report-petroleum-fund-report da Silva, G. (2016). ANPM Presentation to Petroleum Fund Consultative Council Conference, 27 October 2016. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/docs/ANPMKKFPOct2016.pdf EIA (U.S. Energy Information Administration) (2018). Annual Energy Outlook 2018: With ­Projections to 2050. Also see associated statistical tables. Washington, DC: EIA. http://www.eia.gov/forecasts/aeo/ EIA (2018a). Short-Term Energy Outlook August 2018. Washington, DC: EIA. http://www.eia.gov/outlooks/ steo/ GDS (Timor-Leste General Directorate of Statistics) (2013). Household Income and Expenditure Survey 2011, Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/HIES2011_­Report_20-_ 20Final.pdf or http://www.laohamutuk.org/DVD/DGS/HIES2011Apr2013en.pdf GDS (2015). Timor-Leste Labour Force Survey 2013. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/wp-­ content/uploads/2015/04/LFS_2013_ENGLISH_VERSION.pdf or http://www.laohamutuk.org/ DVD/DGS/LFS2013en.pdf GDS (2016). Poverty in Timor-Leste 2014. Dili: RDTL. http://www.mof.gov.tl/wp-content/­uploads/ 2016/09/012_TL_REPORT_R01.pdf or http://www.laohamutuk.org/DVD/DGS/SLS2014/ PovertyReport2014-Sep2016en.pdf GDS (2017). Timor-Leste National Accounts 2010–2016. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/wp-­ content/uploads/2018/01/01_TL-NA-2000-2016_Publication_180215_1012.pdf or http://www.­ laohamutuk.org/DVD/DGS/NA2016.pdf GDS (2017a). Timor-Leste 2015 Census. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/category/publications/ census-publications/2015-census-publications/ or http://www.laohamutuk.org/DVD/DVDIndexEn. htm#census15 GDS (2018). Consumer Price Index Reports. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/category/surveyindicators/consumer-price-index/?lang=en GDS (2018a). External Trade Statistics, Monthly and Annual Reports. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics. gov.tl/category/survey-indicators/external-trade-statistics/?lang=en or http://www.laohamutuk. org/DVD/DVDIndexEn.htm#gov

106

After the oil runs dry GDS (2018b). Business Activity Survey of Timor-Leste 2016. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/wp-­ content/uploads/2018/01/BAS-2016-publication-Versaun-Inglesh1.pdf or http://www.­laohamutuk. org/DVD/DGS/BAS2016en.pdf GDS (2018c). Demographic and Health Survey 2016. Dili: RDTL. http://www.dhsprogram.com/publications/publication-FR329-DHS-Final-Reports.cfm or http://www.laohamutuk.org/DVD/2018/ DHS2016.pdf GDS (2018d). Quarterly Statistical Indicators. Dili: RDTL. http://www.statistics.gov.tl/category/survey-­ indicators/quarterly-statistical-indicators/ or http://www.laohamutuk.org/DVD//DVDIndexEn. htm#QSI Hamburg Port Consulting (2013). Traffic Analysis for Tibar Port conducted for the International ­Finance Corporation (unpublished). La’o Hamutuk (2005). Public Consultation and Enactment of Timor-Leste Petroleum Fund Act. http:// www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/PetFund/Act/05FundActConsult.htm La’o Hamutuk (2005a). Enactment of Timor-Leste Petroleum Regime. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/ PetRegime/05PetrolActPassage.htm La’o Hamutuk (2006). Production Sharing Contracts in the Joint Petroleum Development Area. http:// www.laohamutuk.org/OilWeb/JPDA/JPDA%20PSCs.htm La’o Hamutuk (2008). Sunrise LNG in Timor-Leste: Dreams, Realities and Challenges. http://www. laohamutuk.org/Oil/LNG/LNGReport.pdf La’o Hamutuk (2015). 2015 General State Budget. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE15/14OGE15. htm La’o Hamutuk (2015a). ‘It Takes More than Money to Achieve Development: Lessons from and for Timor-Leste.’ http://laohamutuk.blogspot.com/2015/02/it-takes-more-than-money-to-achieve. html La’o Hamutuk (2015b). ‘Timor-Leste’s Oil and Gas are Going Fast.’ http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/ curse/2015/OilGoingFast15Apr2015en.pdf La’o Hamutuk (2015c). ‘Update: How Long Will Timor-Leste’s Petroleum Fund Last?’ http://www.­ laohamutuk.org/econ/model/OilSustain2June2015.pdf La’o Hamutuk (2015d). ‘How Long Will the Petroleum Fund Carry Timor-Leste?’ http://www.­laohamutuk. org/econ/model/13PFSustainability.htm La’o Hamutuk (2015e). ‘TL’s Human Development Index Dropping, but Data is Lacking’. http://­ laohamutuk.blogspot.com/2015/12/tls-human-development-index-dropping.html La’o Hamutuk (2016). 2016 General State Budget. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE16/ 15OGE16.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016a). Environmental Assessment for Betano Refinery. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/ TasiMane/Betano/EIA/16RefineryEIA.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016b). Indicators have Consequences. http://laohamutuk.blogspot.com/2016/03/­ indicators-have-consequences.html La’o Hamutuk (2016c). Is the Tibar Container Port What Timor-Leste Really Needs? http://­ laohamutuk.blogspot.com/2016/06/is-tibar-container-port-what-timor.html La’o Hamutuk (2016d). Public-Private Partnership for Tibar Port: Helping Economic Growth or Limiting Sustainability? http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/PPP/Tibar/TibarIndexEnTe.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016e). South Coast Petroleum Infrastructure Project. http://www.laohamutuk.org/ Oil/­TasiMane/11TasiMane.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016f ). ‘Spinning Straw into Gold: Facts Remain True, Regardless of Public Relations.’ http://laohamutuk.blogspot.com/2016/11/spinning-straw-into-gold.html La’o Hamutuk (2016g). The Suai Supply Base. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/TasiMane/13SSBen.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016h). Timor-Leste is going into debt. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/debt/12Borrowing.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016i). Timor-Leste’s Private Investment Law and Policy. http://www.laohamutuk. org/econ/invest/16InvestPolicy.htm La’o Hamutuk (2017). Writing a New Mining Code for Timor-Leste. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/ Mining/17MiningLaw.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018). [Operation of ] Timor-Leste Petroleum Fund. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/­ PetFund/05PFIndex.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018a). 2017 and 2018 General State Budgets. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/ OGE17/16OGE17.htm

107

Charles Scheiner La’o Hamutuk (2018b). Bobby Boye: Convict, Advisor and Fraud. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/­ corruption/Boye/14BoyeCase.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018c). Information about the Treaty between Australia and Timor-Leste on ­Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/Boundary/­ CMATSindex.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018d). Making the Oil Companies Pay What They Owe. http://www.laohamutuk. org/Oil/tax/10BackTaxes.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018e). Petroleum Production Sharing Contracts. http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/ PSCs/10PSCs.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018f ). Extractive Industry Transparency Initiative (EITI) in Timor-Leste. http:// www.­laohamutuk.org/Oil/EITI/10EITIindex.htm La’o Hamutuk (2018g). Submission to Parliament on the proposed State Budget for 2018. http://www.­ laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE18/LHSubPNOJE2018en.pdf La’o Hamutuk (2018h). 2019 General State Budget. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE19/ 18OGE19.htm McGrath, K. (2017). Crossing the Line: Australia’s Secret History in the Timor Sea. Carlton, VIC: Redback Quarterly. MoF (Ministry of Finance, RDTL) (2012). State Budget Documents for the 2012 Rectification Budget. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OR12/12OR2012.htm#docs MoF (2015). State Budget Documents for 2015. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE15/14OGE15. htm#docs MoF (2016). State Budget Documents for 2016. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE16/15OGE16. htm#docs MoF (2017). State Budget Documents for 2017. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/16OGE17. htm#docs MoF (2017b). eProcurement Portal. http://www.eprocurement.gov.tl/public/indexeprtl?&lang=en MoF (2018a). Proposed State Budget Documents for 2018. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/ 16OGE17.htm#docs MoF (2018b). Budget Transparency Portal. http://www.budgettransparency.gov.tl/public/index?&lang=en Monteiro, F. (2016). TimorGAP Presentation to Petroleum Fund Consultative Council Conference, 27 ­October. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/docs/TimorGAPKKFPOct2016.pdf RDTL (República Democrática de Timor-Leste; Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste) (2011). TimorLeste Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030. Dili: RDTL. http://timor-leste.gov.tl/wp-content/­ uploads/2012/02/Strategic-Development-Plan_EN.pdf or http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/ SDP/2011/Timor-Leste-Strategic-Plan-2011-20301.pdf Rigzone (2015). 5-Feb-2015. Timor-Leste Reviews Investment Rules, Plans New Bid Round. http:// www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/curse/2015/RigzoneBid5Feb2015.pdf Santos (2018). Quarterly, Annual and Reserve Reports for 2003–2017. http://www.santos.com/ share-price-performance/company-reporting/ Scheiner, C. (2011). Timor-Leste Must Win Independence from Petroleum. Presentation at launch of UNDP 2011 Human Development Report. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/HDI10/11NHDREn.htm Scheiner, C. (2014). How Long Will the Petroleum Fund Carry Timor-Leste? In Understanding TimorLeste: Proceedings of the 2013 Timor-Leste Studies Association conference. http://tlstudies.org/tlsa_ ­confpro2013.html or http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/model/ScheinerPetrolFund17Feb2014en. pdf with additional information at http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/model/13PFSustainability.htm Scheiner, C. (2015). Can the Petroleum Fund Exorcise the Resource Curse from Timor-Leste? In A New Era? Timor-Leste after the UN, Ingram S. L. Kent and A. McWilliam (eds.), Canberra, ACT: ANU Press. http://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/exor/ScheinerFundExorciseCurseJun2015en.pdf Scheiner, C. (2017). As Bayu-Undan Dries Up: Challenges and Opportunities. In New Research on Timor-Leste, Job P., A. B. da Silva, N. Canas Mendes, A. da Costa Ximenes, M. Barreto Soares, S.  Niner, and T. Tam (eds.), pp. 284–301, Dili: Timor-Leste Studies Association. http://www. laohamutuk.org/misc/TLSA2017/ScheinerTLSABayuDriesEn.pdf ­ otice. Canberra, ACT: Strating, R. (2017). JSCOT Hearing 14/03/2017 CMATS, Response to Questions on N Australian Parliament. http://www.aph.gov.au/DocumentStore.ashx?id=1b759c23-2085-4092b393-­d8a4d919e23c&subId=508997 or http://www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/Boundary/JSCT/2017/ Sub29StratingAnswers.pdf

108

After the oil runs dry Timor Agora (2017). Ekonomia TL iha ‘Ameasas’ Boot, Tinan 20 Tan Bele Monu ba Ema Estranjeirus, Dili: Jornál Nasionál. 28 January 2017. http://timoragora.blogspot.com/2017/01/ekonomia-tl-ihaameasas-boot-tinan-20.html TimorGAP, E.P. (2018). Annual Report 2017. https://timorgap.com/databases/website.nsf/­v w AllNew2/Annual%20Reports or www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/TimorGAP/TGAR2017en.pdf United Nations Development Program (UNDP) (2018). 2018 Statistical Update. http://hdr.undp.org/ en/2018-update World Bank (2018). World Development Indicators. Washington, DC: World Bank. http://databank. worldbank.org/data/reports.aspx?source=world-development-indicators WHO (World Health Organization) (2018). Global Health Observatory on Child Stunting. http:// apps.who.int/gho/data/node.sdg.2-2-viz-1?lang=en WHO (2018a). Global Health Observatory on Health expenditure. http://apps.who.int/gho/data/ view.main.HEALTHEXPRATIOTLS?lang=en YCharts (2017). Japan Liquefied Natural Gas Import Price Chart, accessed 28 March 2017. https:// ycharts.com/indicators/japan_liquefied_natural_gas_import_price/chart/

109

8 FROM “SPECIAL TREATMENT” TO A SPECIAL ECONOMIC ZONE Antecedents to ZEESM in the Oecusse-Ambeno enclave Laura S. Meitzner Yoder From district development to national revenue source: directionality, beneficiaries, and local representation When Timor-Leste launched the Special Economic Zone of Social Market Economy (ZEESM) in the Oecusse-Ambeno enclave in mid-2013, it seemed to many that this fiscally massive and sectorally undefined initiative appeared virtually out of nowhere. The advent of ZEESM, the ambitious US$4.11 billion infrastructure-heavy project with initial investment from the central government, reflected inexplicably incongruous levels of state attention to the previously neglected enclave (Meitzner Yoder, 2015; ZEESM T-L, 2013–2014). A rapid legal overhaul of the district’s governance structure soon followed, establishing the Special Administrative Region of Oecusse-Ambeno (RAEOA), with a centrally appointed president from the capital Dili and seven appointed regional secretaries (“Parlamentu Nasional Aprova Final Global Lei Rejiaun Espesial Oe-Cusse Ambeno,” 2014). Despite appearances, ZEESM did not appear out of thin air, but can be understood as the finally realized manifestation of over a decade of efforts to enact “special treatment” for this unique district. Drawing on reports and documents drafted by various entities from 2000 onward, this chapter traces the idea of developing a Special Economic Zone (SEZ) in Oecusse from early mention in 2000 during the immediate post-Indonesian era, through to its formal declaration in 2013. It discusses the changing elements of and reasons for an Oecusse SEZ, focusing on three aspects: (1) the directionality of resource flows, (2) how SEZ design indicates the project’s intended beneficiaries, and (3) how iterations of proposed governance arrangements reflect the different expectations of Oecusse residents and others for local representation and leadership in the district. Highlighting both the continuities and the shifts leading up to the SEZ’s formation, we observe how the SEZ initiative’s purpose and focus shifted from a vision of locally controlled district development to one of centrally mandated national revenue generation. Initial calls for special treatment focused on the pragmatic, logistical necessity of distinctive regulations for the geographically separated district to survive economically via trade with the surrounding region of (Indonesian) West Timor. Additional elements included regional pride and the need to give particular attention to the district’s low socioeconomic status and the welfare of its isolated residents. Early proposals by Oecusse-based groups 110

Special treatment to a special economic zone

proposed governmental structures with extensive reference to the existing region-specific customary hierarchies of the district. They also indicate a strong, clear preference for direct election of the district’s administration alongside a governance role for traditional councils (Indonesian: lembaga adat). Later iterations, most notably in the initial launch of ZEESM and RAEOA entities that became enshrined in law and budgets from 2014, make scant mention of Oecusse’s economic and family ties with West Timor or the district’s unique customary governance authorities,1 and focus less on benefits that special treatment would have on the residents of Oecusse. Instead, they emphasize a state-mandated use of Oecusse’s land area and resources as something that should serve the economic benefit of the nation of ­Timor-Leste. Reversing the directionality of anticipated benefits from Oecusse to the nation, there have been recent calls on Oecusse people to be sufficiently grateful in receiving the initial state expenditures in the process of designating their region as an SEZ designed to attract foreign direct investment.

The need for special treatment: separation, neglect, and inaction The Oecusse-Ambeno enclave is a political artifact of colonial land claims and geographically distinct from the eastern body of Timor-Leste. The region was a center of P ­ ortuguese ­contact on the island of Timor from the early 1500s and contained the first capital of P ­ ortuguese Timor, Lifau. Localized rulers maintained an enduring affiliation with the P ­ ortuguese even as Dutch influence spread throughout the western half of Timor island, and in the late nineteenth century, the colonial boundaries were reified to create the enclave that remains in place today (Farram, 1999; Hägerdal, 2012). Local leaders fostered a p­ olitical-religious identity that contributed to the persistence of this trading port remnant as an enclave of Portuguese Timor (Meitzner Yoder, 2016a). Even today, the nationalistic affiliation most Oecusse people hold with Timor-Leste is remarkably strong, given their relatively limited direct interaction with the rest of the nation, and considering that most Oecusse residents are of the same ethnolinguistic group that dominates the western—formerly Dutch-claimed, Indonesian—half of the island. Oecusse’s physical separation from the eastern districts has long resulted in minimal ­attention from the central government. For centuries, strong local authorities dominated trade and colonial contacts throughout Oecusse and beyond its present boundaries. Oecusse had periodic legal exceptionalism under Portuguese rule that lasted until 1975; for ­example, when Portuguese governors were unable to enforce the forestry restrictions enacted in the rest of Portuguese Timor, they legally permitted the sandalwood trade to continue in ­Oecusse (Cinatti Vaz Monteiro Gomes, 1950; Meitzner Yoder, 2011). The Indonesian occupation of the territory from 1975 to 1999 erased Oecusse’s national colonial boundary with the neighboring regions, and there was pressure to incorporate it into the surrounding West Timorese province. Only through strong political resistance of Oecusse local leadership, the enclave remained part of the Indonesian province of East Timor. Political neglect continued under international oversight. Before the August 1999 UN-supervised referendum that led to Timor-Leste’s independence, an international observer noticed that Oecusse did not appear on early drafts of the national map prepared for the referendum ballots and was also missing on other forms. Following the referendum, international forces only intervened to quell the violence in Oecusse after local leaders sent a young boy to the eastern portion of the country to plead with Australian forces for assistance. This allowed Indonesian-sponsored militias to operate freely in Oecusse district for a full month after the intervention in the eastern part of Timor (BBC, 2008). As a result, militias 111

Laura S. Meitzner Yoder

destroyed nearly all public buildings and two-thirds of the district’s houses, and 95% of the enclave’s population fled to find temporary refuge in surrounding areas of Indonesian West Timor during September–October 1999 (East Timor Transitional Administration, 2001; ICG, 2010). Many of the East Timorese who had participated in the militias congregated and eventually settled in the region of Indonesian West Timor that separates Oecusse from the eastern districts. Security there was tenuous from 1999 for several years, with land passage of international personnel prohibited and many Oecusse residents unwilling to run the risk of traversing the corridor. Under the UN Transitional Administration (UNTAET) until full independence in 2002, there was widespread recognition that Oecusse’s situation required special a­ ttention. ­Independence brought “acute isolation” to the enclave as transport connections and ­communications, with the rest of the nation severely limited (Bano & Rees, 2002). The ­earliest calls for special treatment focused on the uniqueness and specificity of Oecusse, and for Dili to recognize and to act on the limitations imposed by the enclave’s geographic ­separation and the crippling isolation that ensued. The overall tenor of civil society’s ­messages indicated that it was the responsibility of the central government to take actions in favor of the people of Oecusse (La’o Hamutuk, 2000a, 2000b). According to Arsenio Bano,2 a key figure on issues of Oecusse’s status: A basic requirement for a special resolution of questions about Oe-cusse’s future is for the central government to recognize Oe-cusse’s special and unique situation as being distinct,…thus obliging the government to find a unique framework to address and resolve the problems of Oe-cusse’s isolation, in other words special treatment. (Bano, 2001, italics added) This is the language that eventually appeared in the new nation’s 2002 Constitution: ­ ecusse-Ambeno will “enjoy special administrative and economic treatment” (Section 5) O and be “governed by a special administrative policy and economic regime” (Section 71) (Constituent Assembly of East Timor, 2002). Despite these good intentions, for over a decade there was little practical progress toward achieving anything identifiable as “special treatment.” Since independence, Oecusse has lagged far behind the rest of Timor-Leste in nearly every human development indicator. Annual hungry seasons for multiple months, acute water shortages, low literacy, and, tragically, high rates of maternal mortality and child malnutrition continue to affect most residents of the enclave, with some key well-being indicators still intractably low by national standards (World Bank, 2016a, 2016b). Despite these circumstances, Oecusse is well known for being a peaceful haven from the political violence that has recurred in the rest of the country, and a place of high social cohesion within a nation with layers of internal conflict.

Successive attempts to implement special treatment for the enclave Since the earliest years of independence from Indonesia, multiple groups have sought to specify how Oecusse might be governed and developed in practical and distinctive ways. Some have conceptualized and even written signature-ready draft laws to this effect. Groups and individuals connected to the enclave have proposed formal structural components of economic, legal, and governance exceptions from national norms that would fulfill the Constitutional promise for special treatment. This section follows the progression of draft proposals, initiatives, and documents aimed at defining the scope and shape of Oecusse’s special 112

Special treatment to a special economic zone

treatment. Although these documents were not formalized in district governance, their content illuminates the stated priorities and evolving emphases of enclave residents and others, charting the extended path underway toward designating Oecusse as an SEZ.

Making the case for special treatment and stalled policy starts, 2000–2002 The idea of Oecusse as an SEZ had its origins during UNTAET, when international staff served in many primary government positions. Before 2002, there were multiple incipient efforts to address the critical needs of the enclave by prescribing various iterations of an SEZ. Early efforts stressed the reality of “Oe-cusse’s economic interdependence with West Timor” and the strategic opportunities for positive political contributions to the relationship with Indonesia, which is framed as a move to support development of the enclave (Bano, 2001). These objectives are best summarized by two individuals directly involved in this process, Bano and Rees (2002:21, italics added for emphasis): In June 2000, the international District Administration proposed that Oecussi should be developed into a Special Economic Zone (SEZ). This called for a soft border regime with Indonesia, reduced tax and tariff rates, and unique land and labour codes - in other words, a commercial framework designed to make the enclave attractive. A SEZ is well situated to exploit the market of 1.2 million people in West Timor. In July 2000 the District CNRT Congress called for a ‘governmental’ arrangement in which Oecussi would become a province rather than a district…[to] enhance its access to central government funds and political influence. Urged by the District Administration, the Minister for Internal Administration at the end of 2000 called for an Oecussi Task Force to develop a comprehensive policy. It never materialised. ­ orum) In July 2001 one of us (Arsenio Bano, then director of the East Timor NGO F proposed the enclave be declared a demilitarised peace zone. … Oecussi could be the ­centre-piece of the oft-stated foreign policy desire for harmonious relations with Indonesia. … A peace zone would accommodate Indonesian economic and security interests and thereby help Oecussi to develop. The key is that the future of the enclave requires substantial ­bilateral negotiations with Indonesia, as its future depends on West Timor and Jakarta second only to Dili. Also during [early] 2001 two community groups formed to discuss the future of the enclave. Based in Oecussi and Dili, the Oecussi Enclave Research Forum and the Oecussi Advocacy Forum both called for various forms of regional autonomy. These perspectives firmly locate Oecusse within Indonesian West Timor and highlight its potential as a politically strategic and potentially lucrative site—if it can be fashioned into a fiscally and legally attractive investment destination. During these years, both internationals and Oecusse residents recognized the centrality of facilitating cross-border issues and regional economic linkages to address the enclave’s problems of isolation and chronic development challenges. The earliest proposals bear the imprint of international administrators drawing on classic neoliberal elements of SEZ models elsewhere in the world.3 These proposals take market-oriented governance as their starting point; concerns over foreign relations and security aspects are also paramount. After the March 2002 Constitution recognized Oecusse’s distinct status,4 the central government did establish a high-level Oecusse Task Force to develop a comprehensive policy, “a holistic solution, linking local governance with border issues and economic development, which is in turn linked to security” 113

Laura S. Meitzner Yoder

(Bano & Rees, 2002). Oecusse residents and others envisioned that the enclave would play a leading role in developing a positive new relationship between Timor-Leste and Indonesia. Both community-based gatherings and smaller groups of district representatives proposed multiple administrative policies and governance actions—notably, with scant mention of infrastructure—at this early stage that they believed would benefit Oecusse economically and the nation politically.

Public consultations and draft laws, 2002–2003 Under the independent Timor-Leste government, community consultations continued with leaders and residents from all villages of Oecusse on the nature of the enclave’s special status. In 2002–2003, Oecusse academic, businessman, and political figure, Jose Anuno, who later served as district administrator, authored a 70-page document on economic and political development aspects proposed for the enclave (Anuno, 2002). During these early years, matters of decentralization and government units were hotly debated throughout the fledgling nation as they have been across Southeast Asia since the mid-1990s. In Oecusse, the nature of regional autonomy was also widely discussed, and the Anuno document’s point of departure is that centralized policymaking would harm Timor-Leste’s development as a democratic country seeking openness and modernity in a globalized world of free markets (Anuno, 2002:ii). The author included the outcomes of a two-day public consultation in March 2002, a week-long youth forum in April 2003, and a 200-item questionnaire through which he sought to gather the opinions of the “lower class” (ii, 52, 57). The Anuno document strongly supports Oecusse people’s own broad responsibility for and participation in the enclave’s development, especially in the agricultural sector. A section on funding sources proposes that alongside external loans and investment, fallow state land be given to community groups to develop plantations (Anuno, 2002:37–38) and that Oecusse villages work together to add value to each other’s produce (41–42). It also emphasizes the district’s current readiness for autonomous rule and suggests that wealth produced in Oecusse should remain in the district (including 80% of any future oil/gas revenues) to fund district development (40). A closing section entitled “What they want” contains summaries of 65 individuals’ public comments about their priorities for the district in five areas of governance, namely, transport, social conflict, reconciliation, special status, and local power (52–61). The most frequent comment (35% of respondents) was that, in the spirit of democracy, the district head and other leaders should be directly elected by Oecusse’s residents. Related comments expressed opinions that the district should be led by Oecusse natives and speakers of the district’s regional language of Dawan/Baiqueno. With 20 comments, the second most frequent call was to create a formal governance role for a council of hereditary local authorities or customary leaders. In one individual’s words, “we do not want a [district head] chosen by the government, a political party, or higher officials” (58, my translation). In March 2003, three entities (the Oecusse district government, Oecusse Enclave ­Advocacy Forum, and Oxfam Oecusse regional office) held another workshop for prominent Oecusse leaders. This group of 17 men and 3 women discussed and produced a 17-page draft document entitled “Draft Laws for the Special Status of the Oe-cusse/Ambeno Enclave: Plan for the Formation of the Oe-cusse Special Administrative Region” (Anuno & Muni Salu, 2003). The individuals involved were district administrators, political parties’ representatives, Oecusse-based nongovernmental organization (NGO) staff, and leaders of other civil society organizations. Participants discussed 48 draft articles on Oecusse-Ambeno’s special status. 114

Special treatment to a special economic zone

This document was largely written by two Oecusse-based individuals (the same Jose Anuno mentioned above, and Joao Muni Salu) with district government positions, who had also just founded the Oecusse regional campus for the Dili Institute of Technology ­( DIT-KREO), the only university-level educational institution in the district. This March 2003 “Draft Laws” document contains echoes of Anuno’s longer work, and references earlier plans cited by Bano and Rees. Like the 2002 Anuno document, it ­focuses largely on the orientation and structures that would govern the enclave. The ­preamble ­emphasizes the cultural difference of Oecusse from the rest of Timor-Leste: how its l­anguage, customs, and traditional local authorities are central to the identity of the e­ nclave, and ­because of this “unique distinction, merits Oecusse being granted special status” (Anuno & Muni Salu, 2003:1, my translation). The section on the Oecusse economy ­emphasizes trade and family relationships with the surrounding region of Indonesian West Timor, as well as seeking support for border markets. Overall, this document reflects the widespread interest and enthusiasm for decentralized governance that was circulating at that time. The 2003 document proposes that Oecusse be represented to the central government with a Secretary of State for the Special Region, but most of the text focuses on the nature, functioning, and responsibilities of several layers of locally appointed councils and leadership (Articles 1–33, 41–48). A Regional Council consisting of suco (village)5 representatives elected to five-year terms would have responsibility for meeting weekly to develop and implement a regional development plan, with mandatory public consultation. The Regional Council would have close oversight of activities, budgets, reporting, personnel, and approving taxes and tariffs. At the community level, a Village Consultative Council would exist to convey community aspirations to the Regional Council. It was also recommended that a further entity be comprised of local authorities (Indonesian, lembaga adat), including all heritable customary positions within Oecusse,6 and be responsible for advising the government, addressing disputes, and settling cases before they enter the formal court system. Natural resource regulation would be managed through traditional ceremonies and given customary recognition during inauguration ceremonies of “a leader who has been directly elected and appointed by the people of the Oecusse Special Region” (Article 31). Throughout this document, there is strong emphasis on local elections of leadership for the Special Region, fiscal autonomy, and details of distribution—how income produced within the district would be used for Oecusse. Article 38 specifies that 75% of income from natural resource exploitation would be for the benefit of the Special Region and that 25% would go to the national government “in accordance with the principle of national solidarity.” Mirroring public consultations, Article 40 proposes that the “Regional Administrator will be chosen by direct election of the voters who live in the region” from among political parties or by popular nomination. Other recommendations include echoes of earlier documents. They include a tax structure favorable to international investment; recognition of the West Timor border markets; designation as a peace zone; construction of a hospital that would attract regional medical tourism; and a guarantee that the district administration would care for people with mental or physical disabilities as well as those in poverty. Further outcomes of the workshop affirm the use of the regional Oecusse language in administrative and government activities. There is an intention to respect local material and social culture and traditional institutions, described as “moderate monarchy”; recognition of Lifau as the “first capital city of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste” and center for Catholic diffusion on Timor; and the adoption of a composite legal form of governance comprised of “government + custom + church law”. 115

Laura S. Meitzner Yoder

What is evident from these consultations and initiatives was a clear preference that the enclave’s government reflect locally elected leadership, substantial and widespread input of community members, formal recognition of customary mechanisms, and some continued role for the sociocultural distinctions of the region’s political structures and economic development programs. Authors and residents were aware of the risks Oecusse faced in governance and structures that were not driven by local priorities and decisions. This “Draft Law” proposal was forwarded to the central government, but the only response was that it did not match what the central government desired; Oecusse representatives working in Dili were told that the enclave was not deemed to have sufficient capacity for autonomous governance (Holthouse & Grenfell, 2008:18–19). Consequently, these detailed and locally crafted recommendations were not formally considered.

Testing the enclave’s self-governance capacity, 2005–2013 In 2005 a Decree Law restructuring regional government brought the appointment of a Resident Secretary of State of Oecusse, who was tasked with promoting the attribution of special status in the enclave.7 Some Oecusse leaders took this as a signal of respect and belief in Oecusse’s capacity for autonomous governance (Salumata, 2007). However, for multiple reasons there was little progress at this time and the 2006 national political crisis stalled most policy development until 2008. This delay resulted in disappointment and confusion for Oecusse residents about how to address their persistent isolation from both the other national districts and West Timor as the “hard border” was still in place, causing harsh economic consequences for the enclave’s people. Another young committed Oecusse scholar who would later become a leader in the ZEESM initiative, Regio da Cruz Salumata, argued fervently in a May 2007 series of national newspaper articles that the central government’s passivity and excuses for inaction, often citing a lack of local preparedness for leadership, would never solve the problem of ­Oecusse’s crippling isolation (Salumata, 2007). He linked the central government’s ­g ranting of autonomous authority to Oecusse with the enclave’s ability to develop. Foreshadowing the ZEESM future leadership, Salumata cited 2003 and 2005 speeches of (former) Prime ­M inister Mari Alkatiri who conveyed support for Oecusse to be granted autonomous ­authority, noting the abilities and desires of the Oecusse people to develop their own district. In 2007, the Office of the Secretary of State for Oecusse proposed a 12-page draft entitled, “Organic Act Declaring Oecussi as a Special Economic Zone.” The document had received significant input from an expatriate special economic advisor contracted by US Agency for International Development (USAID) through UN Development Programme (UNDP) to support Oecusse’s private-sector expansion. It called for urgent national government action considering the extreme poverty, poor public health, and stalled economic development in the enclave. The Preamble decries the pernicious effects of neglect, concluding that Oecusse people “need tax breaks and private investment incentives,” requesting that Parliament assist by declaring the district an SEZ (1), dubbed “ECOZONE” throughout the draft Act. Following the SEZ declaration, the Act mandates Parliament to form a regional governance body.8 It calls for legal mechanisms to reduce the region’s isolation and to prepare the enclave to become a “highly developed agro-industrial, industrial, commercial, tourist, communication, residential, banking, investment, and financial center” (7)—an all-encompassing and nonspecific vision of a boilerplate development trajectory designed to attract foreign investment of all and any kinds. In marked contrast to earlier documents, the proposal makes no mention of the enclave’s relationship to West Timor, the historical or cultural distinctiveness 116

Special treatment to a special economic zone

of Oecusse, and economic protection or advantages for the enclave in relation to the central government. This draft reflects a textbook global recipe for an SEZ, many standardized components of which resurface in the ZEESM development model several years later. Notably, the 2007 “Organic Act” also decoupled the formation of an SEZ from local governance structures altogether. Where locally drafted documents from five years prior detailed qualifications and selection processes for district administrators, this Organic Act is one of disembodied policies, mute on the subject of SEZ leadership. The Act included a hierarchy of hiring preference for Oecusse natives, followed by Timorese from other districts (10–11). It excluded “ancestral lands” (defined as those having “uninterrupted possession and occupation by an indigenous cultural community or tribal village for at least thirty (30) years”) from conversion to residential, commercial, or industrial uses (3). Dropping the 2003 document’s aspiration to use the local Oecusse language in district governance, this Act proposed to preserve Indonesian and English as working languages, in addition to the Tetum and Portuguese official languages (11–12). Gone are the references of the 2002–2003 proposals that center on Oecusse residents’ community-level participation in economic initiatives around agricultural activities. In contrast, this document frames an internationally generic economic development squarely in the realm of international corporate investments. It includes clear zoning (2–4), an emphasis on export processing (4), a policed free trade zone (4), and a suite of policies (from tax exemptions to land appropriation to lenient immigration to a region-specific labor code) that favor “foreign investments by international corporate bodies” (10). This draft conveys the impression that socioeconomic policy can be standardized and culturally neutral. However, this draft Act also failed to proceed through the legislative process. Years of inaction in the policy realm also saw little progress on the economic development front in Oecusse, although community initiatives in self-help savings groups, cattle cooperatives, and institutions dealing in microloans appeared throughout the district (Salumata, 2007). In response to the Timor-Leste government’s expressed interest in attracting foreign direct investment, international agencies had offered counsel on the prospect of SEZs in TimorLeste. A USAID study examined the seven potential SEZ sites under consideration by the national government—which did not include a proposed Oecusse SEZ—and concluded that the SEZ is “not a first best policy choice” (Khuu, 2005:8), suggesting that tourism might be a viable alternative for Timor-Leste. Holthouse and Grenfell (2008: 7) summarized the two economic development approaches under discussion for the enclave five years into independence in the following terms. Either increase “productivity and profitability of Oecusse’s current economic base” with special attention to agriculture, cattle production, and forestry, or pursue a range of incentives that would attract foreign and domestic direct investment in sectors such as “low or ­unskilled manufacturing, export processing, food and beverage processing, and various models of tourism development.” The ability of Oecusse residents to reap financial benefits from the latter approach would depend on employers’ assessment of local skill levels. Following i­nterviews with government officials and NGO staff, Holthouse and Grenfell noted that “[s]o high is the interest among Oecusse people in any schemes to boost the economy that concerns about possible negative consequences are largely undetectable at this stage” (2008: 21).

ZEESM: 2013 onward The eventual formation of six investment-attracting SEZs was a centerpiece of the ­national strategic development plan for 2011–2030 (Republica Democratica de Timor-Leste, 2011). And yet, a very detailed February 2013 World Bank review of the national economic 117

Laura S. Meitzner Yoder

outlook and programs does not mention ZEESM or any SEZ plan for Oecusse, although it does mention the Tasi Mane infrastructure megaproject in Suai (World Bank, 2013:8). When the ambitious ZEESM project was eventually unveiled, fully formed, on a publicity tour by Mari Alkatiri and his entourage to the Oecusse population in May 2013, it came as a complete surprise to many Oecusse residents as well. ZEESM appeared on their remote scene with high-level national politicians, big plans to improve district infrastructure around the district capital, a committed state budget, vague intimations of massive forthcoming foreign investment, and well-orchestrated presentations to sizeable crowds.9 Oecusse residents’ response to news of ZEESM needs to be understood in light of their experience with the long-promised but unrealized “special treatment” from 2000 until 2013. Despite promises of official attention to their plight, Oecusse residents continued to suffer uniquely from the chronic isolation imposed by a hard border, cumbersome and prohibitive border-crossing arrangements, limited links to Dili, and restrictions on their economic activities and opportunities. They received little economic benefit from the central government, and the persistent neglect raised questions among some of the enclave’s long-term viability (ICG, 2010). Many successive iterations of efforts to increase local representation within the government had little effect. Following more than a decade of central government evanescent promises and failure to act, it seemed that ZEESM was something concrete that might actually lead to tangible opportunities for Oecusse people. Since the announcement, rapid and dramatic changes in governance and legal regimes during 2013–2015 have been impressive, all funded by national petroleum income and enabling a disproportionate influx of cash and construction activity into the district. The early ZEESM/ RAEOA endeavor was also part of a recent rapprochement between national political figures Mari Alkatiri and Xanana Gusmão (World Bank, 2016b:11). Speeches communicated from Dili by former Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri, the unelected, centrally appointed President of the Regional Authority from 2014, included praise for Oecusse’s historic importance to the nation and the vital role of the Catholic Church to the people in the enclave. In a place where origins really matter, the regional pride of Oecusse residents is so deep that many do believe the nation should, and does, act out of respect for Oecusse’s critical role as the founding site for the Portuguese colony that became Timor-Leste. Many people in this largely agrarian district have unanswered questions about the consequences for their land, but by and large people were initially willing to receive a project, even one with an undefined development agenda, that seemed to have more to it than the mere ether of political rhetoric. This background helps explain why local residents responded with disbelief when bulldozers entered their placid communities and went to work on demolition for road construction in May 2015 (Meitzner Yoder, 2016b; Rose, 2016). Many people expressed incredulity that the destruction was occurring before their eyes, even after some months of warning by government officials that such activity was forthcoming. Their disbelief was not solely at the way in which their properties were appropriated and razed to make way for a “superhighway” through their neighborhood; it was also in amazement that concrete actions, ostensibly for economic development, were actually happening in Oecusse.

From district development to national revenue source Oecusse would seem to be an unlikely candidate district for filling the national coffers. In contrast to most other districts, Oecusse’s average economic status declined between 2007 and 2014. According to the Timor-Leste Living Standards Survey, in 2007, 61% of the district’s population lived below the poverty line (UNDP-RAEOA ZEESM Partnership, 118

Special treatment to a special economic zone

2014). In a 2014 survey, this figure had increased to 62.5%, and Oecusse continued to have the highest poverty rate in the country, compared to the national average of 41.8% (World Bank, 2016a:22). However, ZEESM’s initial public spending on Oecusse’s i­nfrastructure was hardly framed as a humanitarian response, nor an expression of the need to bring the e­ conomy of the neglected district up to the level of other districts. The 2011 National S­ trategic Plan is explicit about the central role of SEZs in national economic development strategy: they are expected to “drive domestic development” and “generat[e] national income” ­( Republica Democratica de Timor-Leste, 2011:155). The anticipated directionality of resource flow is straightforward. Government statements about the purpose of ZEESM indicate that the project is undertaken for the benefit of the nation as a whole. This development is said to justify the markedly disproportionate public expenditure on Oecusse: the enclave receives a massive infusion of state funds—fully enabled by the limited and short-term oil wealth—to construct targeted infrastructure projects deemed essential to attract foreign direct investment.10 Former President Ramos-Horta reminded the population that infrastructure is the necessary precondition to attract investors and that the pilot project of ZEESM will be of eventual benefit to the other 12 districts of the nation (“Projetu ZEEMS La Deskrimina Munisípiu 12,” 2015). In return, Oecusse people are expected to “make contributions to the national good” in exchange for receiving disproportionate funding, in the form of their land, labor, and effort. While visiting a new power plant in Oecusse, the former President of the Republic, Taur Matan Ruak, stated: I ask the people of Oecussi, authorities, scholars, the youth, community leaders, traditional leaders, [and] the population in general, to support the establishment of the ZEESM. All other municipalities had to tighten their belts [in order] to save up for Oecussi. This is a great opportunity for the people of Oecussi. The President asks you to contribute to the success of this project. (“H.E. the President of the Republic TMR Asks the Atoni People to Support ZEESM,” 2015) Although present funding is being channeled from Dili to Oecusse and for major public infrastructure projects, there is a clear expectation that this expenditure on will eventually yield financial gain to the nation as a whole.

Conclusion: still seeking a “special treatment” with local benefit Tracing the documentary antecedents to ZEESM, we note both continuities and shifts in the purpose and forms of an Oecusse SEZ. First, there have been marked shifts in the stated reasons for having an SEZ in Oecusse. While early initiatives drafted by Oecusse residents proposed an array of agrarian-oriented economic initiatives aimed at meeting local basic needs, the proposed models since 2007 focused more pointedly on attracting foreign direct investment and export industries to create income for the nation. Along with this change in orientation, we see a major difference in the role of Oecusse residents in choosing the people who govern their district. The 2002 and 2003 consultations and documents seek direct elections of local candidates, while the post-2013 situation in Oecusse has unelected l­eadership— many of whom have family ties to Oecusse—directly appointed from the capital. A third aspect is that of connectivity, as evident in transportation barriers and ­linkages. Virtually every study, inquiry, and proposal addressing the socioeconomic situation in ­Oecusse since 1999 has emphasized the critical need for a sensible, streamlined land border 119

Laura S. Meitzner Yoder

regime allowing the smooth flow of goods and people between Oecusse and West Timor. But this vision, one prioritized by Bano and Rees in 2002, has not been realized: to this day, cross-border land transport and trade remain cumbersome, expensive, and, in some instances, legally impossible. Continuing in this tradition, an extensive, two-part May 2016 World Bank report on realistic prospects for SEZ success in Oecusse recommended concentration on the agriculture and forestry sectors, concluding that manufacturing was unlikely to succeed in the enclave (World Bank, 2016b). Detailing land transport impediments, the report emphasizes that policies and practices improving cross-border trade and transport are critical to the success of any SEZ in the enclave. What makes this singularly critical aspect so intractable to resolve, despite nearly two decades of its obvious importance? In its early years, ZEESM has prioritized transportation infrastructure, including expanding internal roads, the airport, the port, a bridge, and sea connection with Dili. An obvious omission to this transportation array is a negotiated policy allowing Oecusse residents easy land border crossings and trade into the neighboring Indonesian province. The ZEESM Twin Otter airplane, purchased in 2015, provides transport for a limited number of privileged people with ample financial resources and access—the same situation previously found with UNTAET air transport between Oecusse and Dili. These flights provide enough service for officials and busy visitors to make visits to the enclave, but still do not actually meet the most common travel and trade needs of the district’s population. In fact, working against the enclave district’s larger needs, air access may even further reduce the perceived urgency decision makers themselves feel to develop a border regime designed with the priorities of most Oecusse residents in mind. Oecusse’s persistent political and economic challenges make it vulnerable to predatory development and susceptible to shortcuts on human rights and ecological protections. Examining how an SEZ project implements priorities such as more “flexible” labor codes and environmental regulations, or ensuring local preferences in employment, can provide answers to questions such as, Who belongs to the community of intended beneficiaries? Whose interests take priority in development planning? To date, the unique legal structures enacted for Oecusse would favor foreign investors, but say little of limitations on expropriating or developing individual or collectively owned land—topics that earlier proposals on “special treatment” did address. District-based governance and large initial budget allocations of public funds are intended to propel the region to become an economic powerhouse for the nation. Most initial funding has gone toward construction of public infrastructure and amenities deemed necessary to convert Oecusse into a place ready and attractive for foreign investment of an as-yet-undefined nature. How does this approach to “special treatment” intersect with the needs and aspirations of the Oecusse population? In 2018, five years into substantial public investment in the ZEESM project, the direction of Oecusse’s future economic development remains obscure. On the one hand, the trajectory seems to have wavered little from its initial SEZ emphases.11 At the same time, a July 2017 UNDP report commissioned by the ZEESM/RAEOA equivocates on whether ZEESM is, or even aims to be, a textbook SEZ, stating that most SEZ models do not include the desired human development outcomes newly highlighted in ZEESM publications (United Nations Development Programme, 2017). The report states, “It is important to note that ZEESM is not purely a SEZ and its purpose goes beyond a SEZ. It is an administrative special zone (RAOEA) combined with a structure to promote social market economy which entails investments in health and education,” and that “full establishment of a SEZ in the region and enabling government mechanisms are still to be explored and realised” (United Nations Development Programme, 2017: 11). Earlier proposals and active consultations by Oecusse 120

Special treatment to a special economic zone

residents demonstrated their priorities and concerns that “special treatment” reflect various forms of local leadership, build on community initiatives, support natural resource-based livelihoods, address basic needs in the district including access to West Timor, and clearly designate a portion of any district-based profits for internal use. May current and future iterations of entities charged with fulfilling this Constitutional promise ensure that specialness is also beneficial to Oecusse’s land and people.

Acknowledgments The author thanks Joao Muni Salu, Jose Anuno, Calisto Colo, Pelagio Doutel, Kym ­Holthouse, Damian Grenfell, and Charles Scheiner for inspiration, background materials, corrections, and other forms of generous assistance with this chapter. The purpose of this chapter is to contribute to the ongoing public conversations around governance priorities and processes in Timor-Leste.

Notes 1 The array of customary authorities’ duties in Oecusse is distinct from those in the eastern body of Timor-Leste, but similar to those in West Timor. For western Timor, compare McWilliam (2002) and Schulte Nordholt (1971) to Meitzner Yoder (2005). 2 In 2002, Dili-based Oecusse native Arsenio Bano was Secretary of State for Labour and ­Solidarity in the Government of the Democratic Republic of East Timor, and served on the Oecusse Task Force. Until today, he has remained a central figure in the government’s policy for Oecusse. Through over a decade of government service, he consistently attempted to move forward the initiatives that would implement the Constitutional promise to enact special governance and e­ conomic ­arrangements in the enclave. Since 2013, he has held top leadership positions in the ZEESM ­project and the ­government designation as RAEOA, serving as Project Manager and Technical Team ­Coordinator for the extensive ZEESM “Situation Analysis” study and document (ZEESM T-L, 2013–2014). From 2015 to 2017, he served as Regional Secretary for Education and Social Solidarity in the RAEOA. In September 2017, he was appointed Interim President (Presidente ­Substituto) when ZEESM/RAEOA President Mari Alkatiri assumed the role of national Prime Minister. 3 Many ZEESM documents also reference standard SEZ components (e.g. foreign direct investment to centralized industries, promise of large-scale employment, liberal business environment, export-orientation) as well as comparative mention of other SEZs (United Nations Development Program, 2017:10–13). 4 The May 2002 Timor-Leste Constitution included two mentions of Oecusse’s intended and eventual special treatment. Article 5.3 states that “Oecussi Ambeno and Ataúro shall enjoy special administrative and economic treatment,” and Article 71.2 notes that “Oecussi Ambeno shall be governed by a special administrative policy and economic regime.” The form, purpose, conditions, or priorities of such special treatment were not detailed elsewhere in the Constitution. 5 Oecusse has a land area of 815 km 2 that is formally divided into 18 sucos, which are administrative villages that also approximate customary land divisions. Each has its own internal hierarchy of customary authorities. At various points in the past, the number of sucos has been 20, 21, and as many as 26. 6 For more on the history, types, and roles of Oecusse’s customary authorities, see Meitzner Yoder (2005). 7 This position was filled by Albano Salem, former Secretary of State for Labour and Solidarity, from mid-2005 to mid-2007. He was followed in 2007 by Jorge Teme, who was previously the Timor-Leste ambassador to Australia, and from 2012 became Minister of State Administration. 8 Holthouse and Grenfell (2008) analyze contemporary discussions on economic development in Oecusse. Looking back from 2017 after the formation of ZEESM, the ECOZONE (as the Organic Act named the SEZ) proposed here is akin to the later ZEESM project, and the proposed Oecusse Economic Zone Designated Authority (OEZDA) in the draft Organic Act found later expression in the RAEOA, which now governs the district.

121

Laura S. Meitzner Yoder 9 I have written elsewhere about how the founding documents and contemporary media represent the conceptualization of ZEESM (Meitzner Yoder, 2015, Manuscript 2017). In 2017, some ZEESM/RAEOA publicity materials describe a more holistic approach than that set forth in the founding documents (United Nations Development Program, 2017). 10 The percentages of total government expenditure allocated to ZEESM in three successive years are as follows: 10% (2015), 11.2% (2016), and 12.4% (2017) (United Nations Development Program, 2017:29). See La’o Hamutuk (2015) for much more budget detail. 11 For example, a July 2017 public procurement tender issued by Mari Alkatiri for road and bridge construction and rehabilitation states that the “goal is to bring additional value to the region, to reinforce its international competitiveness, foster and promote the development of the region for investment. The total estimated budget is around US$4.1 billion…with a US$1.36 billion contribution by the public sector.”

References Anuno, J. (2002). Kebijaksa Enclave Oe-Cusse, unpublished manuscript. Anuno, J., & Muni Salu, J. (2003). Undang-undang Status Khusus Enclave Oe-cusse/Ambeno, Maret 2003: Rencana Pembentukan Daerah Administratif Khusus Oe-cusse. Oecusse, East Timor. Bano, A. (2001). A Peace Zone: An Option for the Future of the Timor Enclave. Back Door Newsletter on East Timor. Retrieved from https://members.tip.net.au/~wildwood/01juloecusse.htm Bano, A., & Rees, E. (2002). The Oecussi-Ambeno enclave: What is the future for this neglected territory? Inside Indonesia, 71, 20–22. BBC. (2008, 9 October). Timor Hero Still Seeking a Future. Retrieved from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/ hi/asia-pacific/7659606.stm Cinatti Vaz Monteiro Gomes, R. (1950). Esboço Histórico do Sândalo no Timor Português. Lisboa: Ministério das Colónias, Junta de Investigaçoes Coloniais. Constituent Assembly of East Timor. (2002). Constitution of the Democratic Republic of East Timor. Dili, East Timor. East Timor Transitional Administration, A. D. B., World Bank, and United Nations Development Programme. (2001). The 2001 Survey of Sucos: Initial Analysis and Implications for Poverty Reduction. Retrieved from Dili, East Timor. Farram, S. (1999). The two Timors: The partitioning of Timor by the Portuguese and the Dutch. Studies in Languages and Cultures of East Timor, 2, 38–54. H.E. the President of the Republic TMR Asks the Atoni People to Support ZEESM. (2015). [Press release]. Retrieved from http://presidenciarepublica.tl/h-e-the-president-of-the-republic-tmr-asksthe-atoni-people-to-support-zeesm/?lang=en Hägerdal, H. (2012). Lords of the Land, Lords of the Sea: Conflict and Adaptation in Early Colonial Timor, 1600–1800. Leiden: KITLV. Holthouse, K., & Grenfell, D. (2008). Social and Economic Development in Oecusse, Timor-Leste. ­Retrieved from http://mams.rmit.edu.au/f6qs47gbumu3.pdf ICG. (2010). Timor-Leste: Oecusse and the Indonesian Border. Retrieved from Dili/Brussels. Retrieved from https:// crisisgroup.org/asia/south-east-asia/timor-leste/timor-leste-oecusse-andindonesian-border Khuu, K. (2005). Considerations for Economic Zones and the Case for Timor-Leste. Retrieved from Dili. La’o Hamutuk. (2015, 16 March 2015). 2015 General State Budget. Retrieved from www.laohamutuk. org/econ/OGE15/14OGE15.htm La’o Hamutuk. (2000a). The Isolation of Oecusse: Local NGOs Pressure UNTAET. The La’o Hamutuk Bulletin, 1(2). Retrieved from www.laohamutuk.org/Bulletin/2000/Jul/bulletin02.html#_05 La’o Hamutuk. (2000b). Unfulfilled Promises Prolong Hardships for the People of Oe-cusse. The La’o Hamutuk Bulletin, 1(3). Retrieved from www.laohamutuk.org/Bulletin/2000/Nov/bulletin03. html#Unfulfilled%20Promises%20Prolong%20Hardships McWilliam, A. (2002). Paths of origin, gates of life: A study of place and precedence in southwest Timor. Leiden: KITLV Press. Meitzner Yoder, L. S. (2005). Custom, Codification, Collaboration: Integrating the Legacies of Land and Forest Authorities in the Oecusse Enclave, East Timor. (Ph.D. dissertation), Yale University, New Haven, CT.

122

Special treatment to a special economic zone Meitzner Yoder, L. S. (2011). Political ecologies of wood and wax: Sandalwood and beeswax as symbols and shapers of customary authority in the Oecusse enclave, Timor. Journal of Political Ecology, 18, 11–24. Meitzner Yoder, L. S. (2015). The development eraser: Fantastical schemes, aspirational distractions and high modern mega-events in the Oecusse enclave, Timor-Leste. Journal of Political Ecology, 22, 299–321. Meitzner Yoder, L. S. (2016a). The formation and remarkable persistence of the Oecusse-Ambeno enclave, Timor. Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 47(2), 281–303. Meitzner Yoder, L. S. (2016b). Oecusse’s Special Economic Zone and Local Governance. State, ­Society & Governance in Melanesia (Brief, 2016/5). Meitzner Yoder, L. S. (2018). Piloting the experimental ZEESM megaproject: Performing the ­f uture in the Oecusse-Ambeno enclave. pp. 85–98 in J. Bovensiepen (Ed.), The Promise of Prosperity: ­Visions of the Future in Timor-Leste. Australian National University Press. Canberra Parlamentu Nasional Aprova Final Global Lei Rejiaun Espesial Oe-Cusse Ambeno. (2014, May). ­B ulletin Governu, 7. Projetu ZEEMS La Deskrimina Munisípiu 12. (2015, 22 August 2015). Matadalan Online. Retrieved from http://matadalan.com/projetu-zeems-la-deskrimina-munisipiu-12/ Republica Democratica de Timor-Leste. (2011). Timor-Leste Strategic Development Plan 2011-2030. Dili: RDTL. Rose, M. (2016). ZEESM: Destructive ‘Development’ in Timor’s Special Economic Zone. State, ­Society & Governance in Melanesia (Brief, 2016/4). Salumata, Regio da Cruz. (2007, 21 May 2007). Special status dan autoritas otonomi kepada Oecusse enclave untuk mengaturnya merupakan suatu entitas logis. Suara Timor Lorosae. Schulte Nordholt, H. G. (1971). The Political System of the Atoni of Timor. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. UNDP-RAEOA ZEESM Partnership. (2014). Supporting the Oe-Cusse RAEOA ZEESM. Public presentation at UNTL. Dili. Retrieved from www.laohamutuk.org/econ/Oecussi/UNDP/­U NDPZEESM10Jul2014en.pdf United Nations Development Programme. (2017). Special Administrative Region of Oé-Cusse Ambeno: An Alternative Development Model for Timor-Leste. Retrieved from www.tl.undp.org/content/dam/ timorleste/docs/reports/DG/UNDP%20Report_ZEESM_FINAL%2020-7.pdf World Bank. (2013). Country Partnership Strategy for the Democratic Rebublic of Timor-Leste for the Period FY2013-FY2017. Retrieved from http://documents.worldbank.org/curated/en/927031468131984331/ pdf/752630CORRIGEN0C0disclosed030260130.pdf World Bank. (2016a). Poverty in Timor-Leste 2014. World Bank. (2016b). Timor-Leste—Oecusse Economic and Trade Potential: Overview of Oecusse Today and Long Term Potential. Retrieved from Washington, DC. Retrived from https://openknowledge. worldbank.org/handle/10986/24726 ZEESM T-L. (2013–2014). Special Economic Zones of Social Market Economy: First Steps Towards a New Oecusse. Retrieved from https://www.laohamutuk.org/econ/Oecussi/ZEESMSituationAnalysisMar14en.pdf

123

9 TIMOR-LESTE IS A RICH COUNTRY, BUT ALSO A POOR ONE The effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes Joanne Wallis1 Timor-Leste faces a paradox; as a senior government official observed, it ‘is a rich country, but also a poor one’.2 Timor-Leste is ranked 133th out of 188 countries on the UN Development Programme (UNDP) Human Development Index and is consequently classified as exhibiting ‘medium human development’ (UNDP 2016a). This is an impressive ranking for a country that was the poorest state in Asia, and one of the 20 poorest countries in the world, when it regained its independence in 2002 (UNDP 2002). Timor-Leste’s economic progress has been driven by the relatively large revenue streams from oil production in the ­Bayu-­Undan and Kitan petroleum fields since 2005. The future may yield additional revenues from the Greater Sunrise field and from other fields yet to be explored (ESCAP and UNDP 2003). However, Greater Sunrise is subject to a revenue-sharing arrangement with Australia, and the plan for its development remains hotly contested. Timor-Leste began to receive oil revenues at a time when there was a large increase in international oil prices. These revenues transformed the Timorese economy, which had previously relied heavily on donor funding. Consequently, today Timor-Leste is experiencing positive economic growth and investing in major infrastructure projects, such as the Special Economic Zone for Social Market Economy in its enclave of Oecusse and the Tasi Mane project on its south coast. ­ imorese Yet, this apparently positive economic picture does not reflect the reality of many T peoples’ lives. Although Timor-Leste has spent $8 billion of its resource revenues (La’o ­Hamutuk 2016a), poverty levels remain high. In 2015, 64.3% of its population lived in what the UNDP defines as ‘multidimensional poverty’, that is, they experienced multiple ­deprivations at the individual level in health, education and standard of living (UNDP 2016b). Indeed, on the 2016 Global Hunger Index, Timor-Leste ranked 110th out of 118 countries and was scored 34.3, meaning that it was rated as having ‘serious’ hunger ­challenges (von Grebmer et al. 2016). In the future, these challenges are likely to be exacerbated by the fact that about half of the population is younger than 18 years and the birth rate is high (5.7 births per woman) (National Statistics Directorate 2010). This places strains on health and education services, as well as seeing thousands of young people seeking to enter the labour market each year. 124

Effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes

The leaders of Timor-Leste’s first government, from the Frente Revolucionaria de ­ imor-Leste Independente (Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor – FRETILIN) T party, envisioned a series of broad-based social-assistance programmes to address poverty. Consequently, Timor-Leste’s first National Development Plan, released in 2002, said that the government would ‘establish a social safety net to reduce the burden on those in society who are unable to work or help themselves’ (RDTL 2002, section 56). However, as it faced budgetary and capacity constraints, the FRETILIN government was limited in what it could do (World Bank 2013). After the oil revenues began to flow and there was a change of government in 2007, in 2008 three continuing public transfer schemes were introduced (a temporary scheme was also introduced for people displaced by the 2006–2007 security crisis). These schemes are targeted at veterans of the 24-year struggle for independence from Indonesian occupation and their survivors; the elderly and the disabled; and vulnerable and low-income households. Public transfer schemes, whereby resource revenues are distributed directly to citizens in the form of cash payments, are said to have the potential to mitigate chronic poverty, narrow income inequality, boost nutrition, increase school attendance, enhance healthcare access and encourage local business investment (DFID-UK 2011). However, this has not necessarily been the case in Timor-Leste. This chapter begins by outlining how Timor-Leste’s resource revenues are managed and how they are being spent via the public transfer schemes. It then considers the effect and effectiveness of the public transfer schemes, focusing on questions about their role in poverty alleviation, their administration, their sustainability and their politicization. It concludes by arguing that Timor-Leste should consider redesigning its public transfer schemes to improve the likelihood that transfers contribute to long-term poverty alleviation and development goals and avoid political manipulation.

Managing Timor-Leste’s resource revenues The Timor-Leste Constitution provides that natural resources are owned by the state, which should use them ‘in a fair and equitable manner in accordance with national interests’.3 In 2005, the FRETILIN government created a legal framework to guide the management and expenditure of oil resources. The resulting Petroleum Fund Law seeks to ensure that future oil revenues are ‘prudently managed’ in an ‘open and transparent fashion’.4 All petroleum revenues enter the Petroleum Fund. Each year, an Estimated Sustainable Income (ESI) is calculated, which represents 3% of the net present value (or total lifetime value) of the country’s oil resources. The Law allows the ESI to be withdrawn from the Fund each year to contribute to the annual budget. Withdrawals above the ESI require special explanation from the Executive and approval from Parliament. In 2007, FRETILIN lost power to the Aliança para Maioria Parlamentar (Alliance for ­Parliamentary Majority – AMP). The AMP government had a less conservative approach to Timor-Leste’s resource revenues, withdrawing above the ESI each year between 2009 and 2012. Since 2012, this approach has been continued by the Bloku Governu Koligasaun (Government Coalition Block – BGK) government, headed by the Congresso Nacional de Reconstrução de Timor-Leste (National Congress of the Timorese Reconstruction – CNRT) party. Whilst this has prompted concerns that the principles of prudence embedded in the Petroleum Fund Law have been abandoned, the AMP and BGK governments have argued that development requires high levels of investment in human and infrastructural capital, a vision outlined in the AMP government’s 2011 Strategic Development Plan (RDTL 2011a). 125

Joanne Wallis

The public transfer schemes Transfers to veterans of the resistance and their survivors The most extensive public transfer scheme consists of four pensions for veterans of the resistance to Indonesia’s invasion and occupation and their survivors.5 The pensions seek to recognize veterans and compensate them for their service to the nation. Superior pensions are for veterans distinguished ‘for their outstanding contribution to the struggle’. They amount to $750 per month. Special subsistence pensions are for veterans with at least eight years of full-time participation in the struggle, or who are incapable of work due to physical or mental disabilities resulting from their participation in the struggle. The amount of this pension varies according to the last rank/position of the individual veteran. It ranges between $276 and $345 per month. Special retirement pensions are for veterans with at least 15 years of full-time participation in the struggle. The amount of this pension also varies, taking into account the number of years of participation and the last rank occupied. It ranges between $460 and $575 per month. Survivor pensions are for the surviving spouse, orphans (regardless of age), parents or siblings of ‘National Liberation Veteran Combatants’ who died ‘as a result of their participation’ in the struggle, or who were beneficiaries of either the special subsistence or special retirement pensions and have since died. The amount of this pension varies according to the deceased veteran’s last rank/ position. It ranges between $230 and $287.50 per month. The order of preference amongst survivors is surviving spouse, children, parents and then siblings. If there is more than one rightful claimant (such as multiple children), the pension ‘shall be divided equally between claimants’. In order to identify veterans who should receive pension payments, the former President and later Prime Minister, Xanana Gusmão, established veterans’ commissions that worked between 2003 and 2005 to register veterans and their survivors.6 In 2009, these data were verified by a Homage Commission, which compiled the initial lists of veterans to receive payments.7 A separate Tribute, Registration Supervision and Appeals Commission was created to hear appeals about the registration process.8 Although the process of identification was relatively thorough, individuals made false claims to be veterans.9 The identification of wives, children and siblings who claim the Survivor Pension also proved difficult, as many have difficultly proving their relationship to the deceased veteran in the absence of reliable birth or marriage records during the Indonesian occupation.10 Since their introduction in 2008, the veterans’ and survivors’ pensions have expanded dramatically. In 2009, the criteria for the Special Subsistence Pension were expanded. Originally, it targeted only those veterans who were 55 years or older and who participated fulltime in the struggle for between 8 and 15 years. The small number of qualified veterans gave rise to contentious inequalities. For example, a 40-year-old veteran who had served 14 years had to wait for the Special Subsistence Pension until he or she turned 55, whereas a 40-year-old veteran who served 15 years immediately received the Special Retirement Pension, for which there is no age limit (World Bank 2008, 28). Therefore, in 2009 the Law was amended to remove minimum age requirements for the Special Subsistence Pension, expanding eligibility to all veterans who served more than eight years. However, veterans who served less than eight years remained ineligible. In September 2008, a group of 200 such veterans began lobbying for compensation (March 2008). Consequently, in 2009 the Law was amended to provide a one-time public transfer to veterans who ‘took part on a full-time basis in the struggle for national independence for a period of four to seven years’. The amount of this transfer was $1,380, which corresponded to 12 months of the civil service minimum wage (of $115 per month). 126

Effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes

In 2009, the government also made a one-time transfer to cover cases where there was no immediate relative eligible to receive the Survivor Pension. This transfer went to ‘relatives up to a fourth degree in collateral line’ of a deceased veteran, provided these relatives ‘suffered torture, deportation or imprisonment as a consequence of the militancy of their... relative’. The government also began to provide a limited number of scholarships to orphans of deceased veterans and to children of those veterans who receive the Special Subsistence or Special Retirement Pensions.

Support allowances for the elderly and disabled The second public transfer was introduced in 2008 and is a ‘support allowance’ to meet the ‘basic needs’ of the elderly and disabled.11 Individuals who receive other types of benefits (such as veterans) are ineligible. The amount of the support allowance ‘shall not exceed one third of the minimum wage accorded for the current year to civil service employees and shall not be lower than the previous one’. The initial amount of the allowance was set at $20 per month, which was equivalent to 20% of the national minimum wage for civil servants. However, in 2010 the allowance was raised to $30 per month in recognition that incomes had risen (Ministry of Social Solidarity 2008, 2009). This allowance is paid on an individual basis, although in practice it is shared amongst members of the recipient’s household. Some interviewees expressed concern regarding the equity of this situation, noting that households which are home to several elderly members can receive multiple transfers, whilst those that may be equally vulnerable but have fewer (or no) elderly members receive less (or nothing).

The Bolsa de Mãe programme The third public transfer scheme, the Bolsa de Mãe (‘Mother’s Purse’) programme, was also introduced in 2008 with the aim of providing the neediest households with a monthly subsidy to assist them to feed and educate their children. As the programme was inspired by the Brazilian Bolsa Familia programme, in order to ensure that transfers are used for their intended purpose they are conditional on recipients proving: that their children are enrolled in, and attend, school; that they receive their mandatory childhood immunizations; and that they visit healthcare facilities for semi-annual check-ups. There are also plans to require parents to participate in community development sessions on child health, nutrition, education and other relevant issues (Fernandes 2015). The programme is accompanied by outreach services, with child protection officers stationed in all 65 districts to offer support to current – and ­potential – recipients, and referrals to other Ministry of Social Solidarity services. The transfer amount depends on the number of children between the ages of 0 and 17 who live in the household. A household with one child receives $5 per month, one with two children receives $10 and households with three or more children receive $15 per month (World Bank 2013).

The effect and effectiveness of the public transfer schemes Poverty alleviation There are questions concerning the way the public transfer schemes are targeted in ­Timor-Leste. Apart from the Bolsa de Mãe programme, the other public transfer programmes are not t­ argeted at poverty alleviation, but instead at categories of social group (the elderly, disabled, and veterans 127

Joanne Wallis

and their families). Whilst some members of these social groups might experience poverty, others do not, and the current schemes do not capture many people experiencing poverty. Therefore, given that Timor-Leste has a very poor population that receives insufficient social services, it appears that most of the public transfer budget does not target the neediest households. Indeed, a World Bank study found that ‘Timor-Leste spends disproportionately more resources on adults than on children, despite higher prevalence of households with children among the poorest groups’ (World Bank 2013, 52). In addition, the elderly support allowance reaches more of Timor-Leste’s elderly than its poorest (World Bank 2013). Whilst the Bolsa de Mãe programme is specifically targeted at poor households, it has not yet had a widespread impact as it only covers a fraction of poor households and the payments are too low to play a significant role in poverty alleviation (Dale, Lepuschuetz and ­Umapathi 2014). Yet, the Bolsa de Mãe programme does have the potential to reduce poverty, as ­studies of similar programmes in countries such as Brazil and Mexico that are more broadly ­targeted and involve larger payments show. They suggest that buying basic goods like food and ­clothing represents an investment in human capital, and the extra income (especially if tied to school attendance) can increase the family’s incentive to have their children in school rather than working (Moss 2011). Other studies show that ‘poverty reduction is maximized when transfers are reaching the majority of the poor, and when the benefit level is adequate to bring the poor individual up to or over the poverty line’ (World Bank 2013, 57). In contrast to the Bolsa de Mãe programme, payments under the veterans’ and survivors’ pensions are substantial. The lowest veterans’ pension of $276 per month is many times higher than the average Timorese income; in 2010, 41% of the population lived on less than $38 per month (UN 2010). Given how high these payments are, recipients are by definition not poor (Dale, Lepuschuetz and Umapathi 2014). These pensions reach about 1% of the population, but in 2016 constituted more than two-thirds of the budget for the public transfer schemes discussed in this chapter. Yet despite the fact that the veterans’ and survivors’ pensions are not specifically targeted based on need or with poverty alleviation in mind, there is a widespread view that ‘the state should pay attention to veterans because they fought for independence. Even if the country was poor, it would pay them’.12 As the veterans’ and survivors’ pensions, and to a lesser extent, the elderly and disabled support allowance, are not targeted based on need, there is anecdotal evidence that some recipients spend their public transfers on luxury items, parties, or traditional gambling and cockfighting.13 Consequently, there is scepticism that poorly targeted public transfer schemes will lead to long-term improvements in livelihoods, given the lack of a savings culture in Timor-Leste, cultivated by the fact many people have lost their houses and belongings several times during the Indonesian invasion, occupation and subsequent conflicts.14 Poorly targeted public transfers also risk elevating prices of non-traded goods and inflation (Corden and Neary 1982; World Bank 2009).

Administration Making cash payments under the public transfer schemes is also a logistical and security ­challenge, particularly in rural areas, as effective banking and mail systems are u ­ nderdeveloped.15 Whilst most public transfer schemes are administered by the Ministry of Social Solidarity, the Ministry of Finance makes the actual payments. Many payments are paid in cash, ­a lthough there are plans to make more payments into bank accounts. In most cases, Ministry of ­Finance officials travel with the cash from Dili to district administration offices and then work with Ministry of Social Solidarity officials and chefes de suco to ensure payment.16 128

Effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes

Collusion and corruption is another challenge. There is said to be manipulation in the administration of allowances to the elderly and disabled; in some cases, recipients have died, yet their names remain on the recipient list so that others can claim their money.17 There is anecdotal evidence of Ministry of Social Solidarity officials demanding payments from elderly and disabled recipients for fictional ‘administration costs’ before they could be paid or given their identification cards.18 One member of civil society cited a case where a sub-­ district administrator asked a chefe de suco to sign a blank list of recipients, which the administrator would later complete.19 One Member of Parliament argued that the commissions that vetted veterans’ registrations ‘handpicked who were veterans and blocked those who they did not like’.20 Related to this, there appears to be insufficient oversight of the public transfer schemes. This is partly explained by the fact that Timor-Leste is still a young state, which ­experiences capacity and resource shortages. Census and other citizen registration data are often ­unreliable, particularly identification documents from Portuguese colonial times or the ­Indonesian ­occupation. The public transfer schemes were introduced ‘very quickly’, and it was a ‘massive job to set up procedures, administration and distribution systems’.21 ­Accountability structures are also in their infancy, such as the Civil Service Commission, Office of the Inspector-General, Anti-Corruption Commission and the High Administrative, Tax and Audit Court. More promisingly, there are impressive examples of genuine efforts to improve the ­system. For example, the Ministry of Social Solidarity is working with international ­donors to ­create a registry of all vulnerable families. This will allow the Ministry of Social S­ olidarity to use reliable socio-economic data and proxy-means testing to target Bolsa da Mae and other ­payments to the neediest households.22 Efforts are also being made by the Ministry of ­Finance to examine whether mobile banking facilities can facilitate payments.23

Sustainability The expansion of the veterans’ pensions raises questions concerning whether the public transfer schemes are economically sustainable. These questions feed into a broader debate about whether Timor-Leste should save or spend in order to advance its development, and consequently whether the government should withdraw above the Petroleum Fund ESI, as it has done in its annual budgets for seven of the past eight years, as illustrated in Table 9.1. The number of recipients of the elderly and disabled support allowance and Bolsa da Mãe programme has risen, largely because administrative improvements have facilitated the identification of more recipients. However, as these programmes remain small, they have had a relatively small impact on the budget. Instead, the veterans’ pensions are by far the largest public transfer scheme, primarily because the value of the veterans’ pensions and the number of veteran recipients have increased. In the US$1,562 million 2016 budget, US$142 million was allocated for public transfer schemes, of which US$104 million was for veterans. When the budget for public transfers nearly triples that for security (US$76 million in 2016), including the military and police force, questions regarding the sustainability of these transfers need to be asked. These questions become more pressing as the budget to other forms of social assistance, such as health, education and housing, has been progressively cut. Indeed, the World Bank noted that the size of the veterans’ pensions ‘are relatively high compared to other post-conflict countries, particularly as a percentage of ­Timor-Leste’s ­non-oil GDP’ (World Bank 2008, 27). Timor-Leste could face a challenge similar to Guinea-­Bissau, where ‘commitments to veterans have impeded the government’s ability 129

Joanne Wallis

to address other social issues’ (World Bank 2008, 27). As a result, there is a risk that the ­veterans’ ­pensions ‘crowd… out spending on other, more pro-poor cash transfer programs’ (Dale, Lepuschuetz and Umapathi 2014, 293). However, one international official noted that Timor-Leste was in ‘short-term mode’ when it introduced the pensions in 2008, as it was immediately after the 2006–2007 security crisis and the government felt it needed to respond to stability needs first, and economic sustainability second.24 There are also proposals to make public transfers to members of the extensive network of civilians who supported the independence struggle, referred to as the ‘clandestine resistance’; estimates of their numbers run as high as 70,000.25 A proposed Reparations Law could potentially lead to transfers for the ‘vulnerable victims’ of the Indonesian occupation. In addition, in 2011 the government created a pension system for civil servants, which it is proposing to extend to all formal sector workers, which will place further strains on the state budget. However, given that civil servants earn regular salaries, most civil servants are not poor and have on average higher salaries than private-sector workers. As a result, the pension scheme is ‘inconsistent with Timor-Leste’s stated desire to better target its social assistance programs and expenditures to the poor’ (World Bank 2014, 5). Each expansion of the public transfer schemes places additional strain on the state ­budget. Escalating public transfers is one reason why the AMP and BGK governments have ­w ithdrawn from the Petroleum Fund at rates above ESI, a trend illustrated in Table 9.1. The decisions of the AMP and BGK governments to consistently draw down from the ­Petroleum Fund above the ESI have raised questions about the sustainability of the Fund. These questions are enhanced by the fact that production on the Kitan field has ended and production from the Bayu-Undan field is due to end in 2021. Moreover, global oil prices have dropped since 2014. Therefore, far less revenue is being contributed to the Fund and is likely to be contributed in the near future. As a result, the proposed 2017 budget only expects to receive half ($867 million) of the revenues from Kitan and Bayu-Undan between 2016 and 2022 than was projected in the 2016 budget ($1,720 million) (La’o H ­ amutuk 2016b). Given that the Fund currently funds about 90% of Timor-Leste’s budget (La’o ­Hamutuk 2015), and there are projections that the Fund could be drawn down entirely by 2026 (La’o Hamutuk 2016c), questions about its sustainability will have a significant impact on the future operation of the state.

Politicization The expansion of the veterans’ pension schemes highlights the risk that the public transfer schemes may be politicized and used to appease certain groups, which could lead to the allocation of revenues in ways that do not advance the country’s overall development, welfare and security. There is a perception that the government has sought to use the transfer schemes to create a ‘moral and political binding’, or clientelist loyalty, between recipients and government.26 Public transfers to veterans run the greatest risks of politicization. Veterans represented a valuable political constituency for the AMP government, and for the current BGK government, both of which used the issue of pensions during election campaigns.27 Certain veterans’ groups have also assumed a vocal role in state affairs, and exercise considerable influence in Parliament, including by advocating for larger veterans’ pensions. 28 Indeed, since their introduction in 2008, the veterans’ and survivors’ pensions have expanded dramatically. As noted, in response to lobbying from veterans’ groups (March 2008), in 2009 public transfers were made to veterans who ‘took part on a full-time basis in the struggle 130

Table 9.1  S ummary budget and public transfer amounts, 2009–2017

2009a Total budget

• $681 million Public transfer budget (for schemes • $33 million discussed in this chapter) ESI • $407 million Withdrawal from Petroleum Fund • $589 million a b c d e f g h i

2010 b

2011c

2012d

2013e

2014f

2015g

2016h

2017 (budgeted)i

•  $837 million •  $45 million •  $502 million •  $811 million

•  1,306 million • $89 million • $734 million • $1,055 million

• $1,674 million $124 •  million • $665 million •  $1,494 million

• $1,806 million • $131 million • $787 million • $787 million

• $1,500 million • $121 million • $632 million •  $902 million

• $1,570 million • $176 million • $638 million • $1,327 million

• $1,562 million • $142 million • $544 million •  $1,283 million

• $1,386 million • $146 million •  $481 million •  $1,078 million

RDTL (2009). First Amendment to Law No. 15/2009 of 23 December 2009 approving the State Budget of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste, No. 37/2010. RDTL (2011). RDTL (2012). RDTL (2013). RDTL (2014). RDTL (2015). RDTL (2016). RDTL (2017).

Joanne Wallis

for national independence for a period of four to seven years’.29 In 2009, the government also made a transfer to cover cases where there was no immediate relative eligible to receive the Survivor Pension. The government also began to provide a limited number of scholarships to orphans of deceased veterans and to children of those veterans who receive the special subsistence or special retirement pensions. 30 This raises a risk that the veterans’ pensions may entrench a perception that veterans (and their families) are a privileged social group, particularly as the survivor pensions and scholarships may embed intergenerational advantage (Wallis 2013). The public transfer schemes may have also contributed to the erosion of democratic oversight, as in 2015 a ‘de facto government of national unity’ was formed between the two major political parties: CNRT and FRETILIN (Leach 2016). This rapprochement saw FRETILIN’s Rui Araújo appointed Prime Minister in 2015 when CNRT’s Gusmão stepped aside to become Minister of Planning and Strategic Investment. This grand coalition was assisted by veterans in the parliament, who were encouraged by the veterans’ pensions to support Gusmão and CNRT (Kammen 2015). Related to their politicization, the veterans’ pensions play a peacebuilding role. Certain veterans’ groups contributed to escalating the 2006–2007 security crisis, as they expressed resentment about their treatment since 1999 (Conflict, Security and Development Group 2003). When they were officially ‘demobilized’ in February 2001, only 650 of 1950 veterans were recruited into the new army, with the rest given small packages to assist their reinsertion into the community. Demobilized veterans mostly missed out on jobs in the civil service and the new police force, and many faced unemployment and significant hardship. Consequently, veterans’ groups formed and began to conduct parades and operate as political lobby groups. Several became increasingly strident and were perceived as threatening the stability of the state (World Bank 2008). The decision to rapidly introduce the veteran pensions in 2008 can be understood partly as a response to this pressure. However, there are questions over the sustainability of the government effectively buying peace from the veterans. There is concern that veterans’ groups may pose a threat to stability should their demands (including for further transfers) not be met. One Member of Parliament cautiously observed that veterans’ groups remain ‘waiting in the mountains, ready to come back down to Dili and cause problems’.31 Whilst no one questions the esteem in which veterans are held, ordinary people are concerned about the role that some veterans’ groups have played since independence, particularly during the security crisis.32 In this regard, the public transfer schemes may have generated an expectation of future transfers. In particular, veterans have mobilized for greater transfers, leading to the expansion of the eligibility criteria for veterans’ pensions, as well as the one-off veterans’ transfers. Similarly, whether members of clandestine resistance also deserve transfers now features more frequently in public discourse. An example of escalating demand is the draft Reparations Law. The Law seeks to initiate a memory and reconciliation process with respect to the conflict between 1974 and 1999, and to empower and support ‘vulnerable victims’.33 One Member of Parliament argued that it ‘is not intended to be a big social assistance program. It is just about finding and helping the most vulnerable and traumatized people’.34 Others see the Law as an effort to create another public transfer scheme aimed at a very amorphous and difficult to identify group. One civil society representative saw it as a symptom of a new culture where there is ‘competition to be victims because people have seen that that is how people benefit’.35 A Member of Parliament expressed concern that ‘the compensation train is steaming out of control’, and if the Reparations Law creates extensive public transfer schemes, ‘the floodgates will open’ for further demands.36 132

Effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes

Conclusion As a proportion of the national budget, Timor-Leste’s public transfer schemes are generous, but they appear to do little to resolve the paradox that animated this chapter. Whilst the public transfer schemes have supplemented the income of certain vulnerable groups and have facilitated a successful peacebuilding effort in the aftermath of the 2006–2007 security crisis, they have not had a widespread poverty alleviation impact. This is in large part because they are not well targeted; a very large proportion of poor Timorese are not eligible for the current transfer schemes, whilst a very small proportion of the population receive substantial veterans’ and survivors’ pensions. This suggests that if the government wants Timor-Leste to stop being a poor country, it needs to do more to better target its transfer schemes at the poorest members of the population, with one possibility introducing a social safety net system. Given the presently finite nature of Timor-Leste’s resource revenues, to do this the government would need to reallocate the public transfer budget so that it is more targeted at those in need. However, such a move might be politically difficult, as it may involve moving resources from the veterans’ pensions. There is also the question of whether public transfer schemes are the most efficient way to alleviate poverty in Timor-Leste. The relative straightforwardness of administering the public transfer schemes has enabled them to be delivered in an environment of weak institutional capacity.37 Yet, concerns exist around the administration of the transfers, and some policymakers interviewed felt that transfers divert resources away from potentially more productive development spending. The transfers also risk escalating demands by potentially destabilizing claimant groups. Transfers can affect the political system, as politicians may seek to buy support through the provision of cash. Consequently, Timor-Leste may need to consider whether a greater emphasis on alternatives such as social housing, income-generation projects (for example, small shops, fuel stations and livestock and transport cooperatives), microcredit schemes or tourism facilities might produce more lasting development results. The government has instead chosen to invest in large infrastructure projects to advance development. However, Timor-Leste is a very young state in which administrative, planning, logistical, accountability, and oversight capacity are still being developed. Whilst infrastructure investments might offer much greater returns than public transfers, without adequate state capacity infrastructure projects can be poorly planned, difficult to implement and prone to corruption. Even if well-executed, years can pass before welfare benefits accrue to the population. In the meantime, Timor-Leste continues to be ‘a rich country, but also a poor one’.

Notes 1 Research for this chapter was in part performed in 2010 with Alexandra Gillies and Mericio Akara for the Revenue Watch Institute. 2 Interview with a government official, Dili, 27 September 2010. 3 Constitution of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste (2002), Article 139. 4 Petroleum Fund Law No. 9/2005, preamble. 5 Decree Law on the Pensions of the Combatants and Martyrs of the National Liberation No. 15/2008. 6 Interview with a government official, 30 September 2010 (Fundasaun Mahein 2011). 7 First Amendment to Law No. 3/2006 of 12 April, No. 9/2009. 8 Statute of the National Liberation Combatants No. 3/2006. 9 Interview with a government official(a), 27 September 2010; interview with a government official, 30 September 2010 (ICG 2011). 10 Interview with a government official, 30 September 2010.

133

Joanne Wallis 11 Decree Law on the Support Allowance for the Aged and Disabled No. 19/2008. 12 Interview with a government official(a), 27 September 2010. 13 Interview with a Member of Parliament, 27 September 2010; interview with a Member of ­Parliament(b), 30 September 2010; interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 26 ­September 2010. 14 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society(b), 27 September 2010. 15 Interview with a government official(b), 27 September 2010; interview with a government o ­ fficial(a), 29 September 2010. 16 Interview with a government official(a), 29 September 2010. 17 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 26 September 2010. 18 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 1 October 2010; interview with a Member of Parliament(b), 30 September 2010. 19 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 1 October 2010. 20 Interview with a Member of Parliament(b), 30 September 2010; interview with a member of ­Timorese civil society, 1 October 2010. 21 Interview with an international development adviser, 30 September 2010. 22 Interview with a government official, 28 September 2010. 23 Interview with a government official, 29 September 2010. 24 Interview with an international development adviser, 30 September 2010. 25 Interview with a Member of Parliament, 27 September 2010. 26 Interview with a member of Parliament, 28 September 2010; interview with a member of ­Timorese civil society, 26 September 2010; interview with a member of Timorese civil society(a), 27 September 2010 (Fundasaun Mahein 2011). 27 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 1 October 2010 (La’o Hamutuk 2013). 28 Interview with a Member of Parliament, 27 September 2010; interview with a Member of ­Parliament(b), 30 September 2010 (ICG 2011). 29 Statute of the National Liberation Combatants. 30 Statute of the National Liberation Combatants; Decree Law on the Pensions of the Combatants and Martyrs; Decree Law on the Regime of Awarding Scholarships to the Children of Combatants and Martyrs of the ­National Liberation No. 8/2009. 31 Interview with a Member of Parliament(b), 30 September 2010. 32 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 26 September 2010; interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 1 October 2010. 33 Draft Law Establishing the Public Memory Institute, http://www.laohamutuk.org/Justice/­Reparations/ Organic15JunEn.pdf, viewed 19 September 2010; Draft Law Establishing a Framework for the National Reparations Programme, http://www.laohamutuk.org/Justice/Reparations/­Reparations15JunEn. pdf, viewed 19 September 2010. 34 Interview with a Member of Parliament(b), 30 September 2010. 35 Interview with a member of Timorese civil society, 1 October 2010. 36 Interview with a Member of Parliament, 27 September 2010. 37 Interview with an international humanitarian worker, 27 September 2010.

References Conflict, Security and Development 2003, A Review of Peace Operations—A Case for a Change, King’s College, London. Corden, WM & Neary, JP 1982, ‘Booming Sector and De-industrialisation in a Small Open ­Economy’, Economic Journal, vol. 92, pp. 825–848. Dale, P, Lepuschuetz, L & Umapathi, N 2014, ‘Peace, Prosperity and Safety Nets in Timor-Leste: Competing Priorities or Complementary Investments?’, Asia & The Pacific Policy Studies, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 287–296. DFID-UK 2011, Cash Transfer Literature Review, Department for International Development, London. ESCAP and UNDP 2003, Exploring Timor-Leste: Mineral and Hydrocarbon Potential, United Nations, New York. Fernandes, R 2015, Assessing the Bolsa da Mae Benefit Structure: A Preliminary Analysis, World Bank, Dili. Fundasaun Mahein 2011, Veterans in Timor-Leste since the Crisis of 2006, Fundasaun Mahein, Dili.

134

Effect and effectiveness of public transfer schemes ICG 2011, Timor-Leste’s Veterans: An Unfinished Struggle? International Crisis Group, Dili and Jakarta. Kammen, D 2015, ‘Timor-Leste’, The Contemporary Pacific, vol. 27, no. 2, pp. 547–544. La’o Hamutuk 2013, The National Impact of Benefits for Former Combatants, Presentation to Belun, viewed 4 January 2017, www.laohamutuk.org/econ/pension/VetPension6Mar2013en.pdf ——— 2015, Update: How Long Will Timor-Leste’s Petroleum Fund Last? viewed 20 December 2016, http://laohamutuk.blogspot.com.au/2015/06/how-long-will-timor-lestes-petroleum.html ——— 2016a, Submission to Timor-Leste National Parliament from La’o Hamutuk on the Proposed General State Budget for 2017, viewed 20 December 2016,  www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/­LHSubPNOJE20177Nov16en.pdf ——— 2016b, 2017 General State Budget, viewed 20 December 2016, www.laohamutuk.org/econ/ OGE17/16OGE17.htm#process ——— 2016c, Timor-Leste Petroleum Fund, viewed 20 December 2016, www.laohamutuk.org/Oil/ PetFund/05PFIndex.htm Leach, M 2016, ‘Timor-Leste’, The Contemporary Pacific, vol. 28, no. 2, pp. 466–473. March, S 2008, ‘E Timor’s Resistance Fighters Call for Pension’, ABC Radio Australia, 11 September. Ministry of Social Solidarity 2008, Minister of Social Solidarity Provides Update on Work of Ministry of Social Solidarity During 2008, Press Release, Ministry of Social Solidarity, Dili. ——— 2009, Timor Minister of Social Solidarity Provides Update on Work of Ministry of Social Solidarity During 2009, Press Release, Ministry of Social Solidarity, Dili. Moss, T 2011, Oil to Cash: Fighting the Resource Curse through Cash Transfers, Center for Global Development, Washington DC. National Statistics Directorate 2010, Timor-Leste Demographic and Health Survey 2009–10, Ministry of Finance, Dili. RDTL 2002, National Development Plan, Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste, Dili. ——— 2009, General Budget of the State and State Plan for 2009, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2011a, Strategic Development Plan, Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste, Dili. ——— 2011b, State Budget 2011, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2012, State Budget 2012, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2013, State Budget 2013, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2014, State Budget 2014, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2015, State Budget Approved 2015, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2016, State Budget 2016, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. ——— 2017, State Budget 2017, Budget Overview Book 1, Ministry of Finance, Dili. UN 2010, Report of the Secretary-General on the United Nations Integrated Mission in Timor-Leste ( for the period from 21 January to 20 September 2010), UN Doc. S/2010/522, 13 October. UNDP 2002, Ukun Rasik A’an: The Way Ahead, East Timor Human Development Report 2002, UNDP, Dili. ——— 2016a, Table 1: Human Development Index and its components, viewed 20 December 2016, http://hdr. undp.org/en/composite/HDI ——— 2016b, Timor-Leste Human Development Indicators, viewed 21 December 2016, http://hdr.undp. org/en/countries/profiles/TLS von Grebmer, K, et al. 2016, 2016 Global Hunger Index: Getting to Zero Hunger, International Food Policy Research Institute, Washington DC. Wallis, J 2013, ‘Victors, Villains and Victims: Capitalizing on Memory in Timor-Leste’, Ethnopolitics, vol. 12, no. 2, pp. 133–160. World Bank 2008, Defining Heroes: Key Lessons from the Creation of Veterans Policy in Timor-Leste, World Bank, Dili and Sydney. ——— 2009, Interim Strategy Note for the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste FY 2010–2011, World Bank, Dili and Sydney. ——— 2013, Timor-Leste Social Assistance Public Expenditure and Program Performance Report, World Bank, Dili. ——— 2014, Creation of a Reformed Pension System for Civil Servants in Timor-Leste, World Bank, Dili.

135

10 ON BREXIT WORRIES Migration and remittance landscapes in Timor-Leste Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro

Introduction During July 2016 on a visit to the town of Los Palos, Lautem district in the far east of Timor-Leste, there were two hot topics of conversation raised by Fataluku friends and acquaintances. First, would Portugal go all the way and win the European Football Association Final that year? They were getting tantalisingly close. Second, what were the implications for the dramatic and unexpected vote on Brexit and the decision by the British to leave the European Union. The fact that these definitive issues of global reach had such purchase in an out-of-the-way place like Los Palos, only highlighted the degree to which its residents these days see themselves as connected citizens of a global ecumene.1 But more than this, it also speaks to the kinds of material interests that engage many East Timorese and their aspirations for particular kinds of values and livelihood opportunities. As it happened, the anticipation over Portugal’s football fate was resolved in a nail-biting, predawn final where they prevailed over the French prompting joyous celebrations amongst young supporters in Timor-Leste who revved their motorbikes around town and wrapped themselves in Portuguese flags. It was as much a victory for the avid East Timorese fans and their hero, Cristiano Renaldo, as it was for the home nation itself. Brexit had a more unsettling significance, especially amongst the many young Fataluku who have been participating in transnational labour migration to the United Kingdom in increasing numbers. With Portuguese passports in hand, they have been welcomed into England and Northern Ireland under the European open borders policy. There they take up diverse but comparatively lucrative, low wage jobs across the country with most committing to ambitious savings plans on minimum £250 weekly wages. Brexit appeared to present a direct threat to that opportunity, one that has provided a bounteous flow of cash remittances to Timor-Leste and into the hands of many grateful beneficiaries. Uncertainty and discussion about Brexit was thus a key topic of interest from mid-2016 amid concerns that this new development might extinguish a flourishing new livelihood option just as it was beginning to show promise. In this chapter, we explore the characteristics and impacts of this unexpected and spontaneous East Timorese labour migration flow to Western Europe. The focus of the study is directed principally to Fataluku migrants and their households of origin in Dili and home district of Lautem. As early adopters and enthusiastic participants in what has now become a burgeoning chain migration numbering many thousands, their experiences and achievements 136

Brexit worries

illustrate a significant contemporary development in the postconflict Timor-Leste (­ McWilliam 2015). In analysing these developments, we draw on a number of targeted household surveys that offer complementary insights into these migrations patterns and possibilities.

New Fataluku diasporas: origins and sustaining features East Timorese transnational migration to the United Kingdom (including Northern Ireland) had its unlikely origins in the mid-1990s when young East Timorese student activists under threat from police and military repression sought and secured political asylum from Indonesia by clambering into the compounds of various foreign embassies in Jakarta. Between 1993 and 1996, hundreds of young clandestinos, utilizing the Indonesian-based RENETIL2 activist networks of protection and passage, escaped to the West and continued their campaigns of protest against the continued occupation of their homeland (see Pinto and Jardine 1997; Rei 2007; Silva 2013). A majority of the transplanted asylum seekers (suaka politiku) began their expatriate lives in Lisbon and Portugal, but by the mid-1990s a few had made their way to centres such as London, Liverpool and Oxford, where they found support for their cause and intermittent work to sustain their campaigns.3 It is from these unlikely but specific familial and political links that the subsequent economic migration of young East Timorese, and particularly Fataluku migrants, gained momentum and support from the end of Indonesian occupation. But there has also been a number of additional and crucial enabling factors that have shaped the gradual development of migrant outflows from Timor-Leste, especially from the year 2000. The first of these was the decision by the Portuguese government to continue its recognition of East Timorese as Portuguese citizens and therefore entitled to secure a ­Portuguese passport with all the privileges and possibilities offered by membership to the ­European Union. This recognition applies to all East Timorese born prior to the declaration of sovereign independence on 20 May 2002, but it is also potentially available to those born in Timor-Leste since that date through the status of their parents as Portuguese citizens. In the immediate post-occupation period, all that was required was a baptismal certificate and later a proof of identity document, effectively a Portuguese identity card, known as a billete ­Identidade, allowing safe passage to Portugal where the passport was issued (cf McWilliam 2012). Since then, the Portuguese have ­ imor-Leste itself and began issuing sought to tighten and regularize the consular services in T passports through their embassy in Dili; an arrangement that continues to the present day and has seen large groups of young East Timorese gathering outside the offices of the Portuguese Embassy in Dili waiting for news of their documents. A second enabling factor at this time was and continues to be the vital role of the expatriate East Timorese sponsor. Typically based in or close to Lisbon, sponsors maintain close connections with Timor-Leste and an interest in helping East Timorese facilitate the application process for their passports. The key value of the sponsor lies in his or her capacity to support and facilitate the passport application process through the often-laborious stages of the Portuguese bureaucracy in Lisbon. Sponsorship and the role of family connections between Timor-Leste and expatriates in Portugal are of particular importance. During the early post-occupation years, in particular, access to a willing sponsor was critical to determining how some Fataluku households and kin networks were able to access support whilst others missed out. Relatives or contacts who had fled Timor-Leste a generation earlier in the wake of the Indonesian occupation in 1975 have been willing in some cases to extend their assistance to families in ancestral communities, especially to a younger generation struggling with unemployment. Sponsors are spoken of highly by those whose families have benefitted from their support, whilst other expatriate 137

Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro

family members, who have remained silent or resistant to entreaties from their would-be migrant relatives, are seen as selfish and mean spirited or, as one of our interlocutors put it, ‘they have become like Portuguese and forget their social obligations’. For sponsors, motivations are mixed between a sense of familial obligation and the desire to make their own contribution to the new nation through these enabling mechanisms of support. There are also evidently financial rewards for sponsors who receive remunerative commissions for their services to cover their costs and time. Key services offered by sponsors are their facility in Portuguese language and knowledge of the bureaucratic pathways. Since 2000 as increasing numbers of households have gained a foothold in the migration pathway, so a pattern of chain migration has emerged where young aspirants can now draw on a wider field of familial contacts to secure support for airfares and passport sponsorship, as well as access to temporary accommodation in England and pathways into employment. Young Fataluku, and East Timorese more generally, have enthusiastically taken up these opportunities all hoping to emulate the experiences and success of their older siblings and friends. Just how many people are actively involved in this burgeoning migration to the United Kingdom is difficult to gauge with precision. Figures as high as 16,000 East Timorese have been discussed based on information sourced from the Portuguese Embassy in Dili, which issues the Portuguese passports. A 2012 thesis by Esteves (2012) lists a figure of 6,500 labour migrants working in the United Kingdom between 2001 and 2011, but the source and accuracy is not confirmed. I also note that the results of the 2015 National Census indicated that at the time of recording a total of 5,345 family members were reported to be living in what is classified as ‘Other European Countries (excluding Portugal)’,4 the vast majority of whom are likely to reside in the United Kingdom. Of this number, I estimate that over 30% of the migrants are Fataluku speakers (Timor-Leste Government 2015), a figure reflecting their historical prominence in the recent transnational labour migration from Timor-Leste. Significantly, East Timorese migration to the United Kingdom has also spanned the introduction and expansion of mobile telephony, the Internet and the diverse technologies of social media. These developments have been highly influential and continue to shape opportunities and practices within the migration sphere. Just as they do across so much of contemporary global social relations. Young East Timorese have been enthusiastic adopters and consumers of Internet telephony and its many platforms ranging from Skype and Facebook to Instagram and Snapchat, as well as video-call services like IMO Messenger. All these technologies have the effect of collapsing time and distance and permitting young migrants to maintain regular and sustained reciprocal communications with friends and family in the United Kingdom and in distant Timor-Leste (see Giddens 1990, 1991). The enabling media have also been instrumental in fostering the emergence of translocal communities around sustained patterns of circular labour migration and the growth of social remittances and attendant relationships of care and mutual obligations to family.

Comparative perspectives Despite the remarkable expansion of transnational labour migration to the United Kingdom for over a decade, there have been comparatively few attempts to understand the dynamics and demographics of those involved. The government of Timor-Leste has basically ignored the process, given the informal nature of the migration networks involved, and focused its energies almost exclusively on various bilateral agreements with regional neighbours for limited migration opportunities such as South Korea, Australia and Malaysia (see Thu and Silva 2013; Wigglesworth and Fonseca 2016; Wigglesworth and Dos Santos 2018). 138

Brexit worries

Until recently, the only systematic household survey of migrant households to the United Kingdom was one conducted by Schuaib (2008) under the auspices of the ­Australian ­International Development Agency.5 The Schuaib survey canvassed the experiences of 105 ­Dili-based households with family members working in the United Kingdom.6 It ­h ighlighted a number of key features of the UK labour migration experience, including the dominance of male labour migrants (90%) over women; the pattern of pursuing largely unskilled work placements (80%); and a high proportion of migrants sending regular cash remittances home to support their families in Timor-Leste. Since the Schuaib survey, however, there had been no follow-up attempts to assess the trends and expansion of the informal, transnational migration to the United Kingdom, despite the dramatic, albeit anecdotal increase in numbers since 2008. As researchers following Fataluku involvement in the labour migration experience over a number of years, it was clearly time for a comparative statistical update on the sector.7 But in the absence of any sign of this occurring, by 2016 we had resolved to implement our own household survey and reprise the approach taken by Schuaib but to direct it specifically at Fataluku households in Lautem and Dili. One of us (McWilliam) enlisted the support and cooperation of Fataluku colleague, Carmeneza dos Santos Monteiro, who agreed to collaborate in the survey. Coincidentally, in preparing to undertake our household survey in mid-2016, Carmen became involved with a group of East Timorese researchers, operating under the auspices of the Asia Foundation with Australian Aid funding, who were preparing to implement their own sample survey in Lautem focusing specifically on Fataluku migration experiences to the United Kingdom. We saw this as an opportune and timely development and, having had the opportunity to meet the main investigators and discuss the scope and format of their survey, Carmen and I were able to adjust our approach to provide a supplementary and complementary set of perspectives on the same general issues. In presenting a range of results here, we draw selectively on both household surveys. Our study of 54 households8 drew on respondents from a number of settlements in Lautem and Fataluku households in the capital Dili, combining the questionnaire with semi-structured interviews. The Asia Foundation study (see Reis et al. 2016) was developed around a digitally recorded questionnaire survey of 357 households in the district of Lautem. Conducted during July 2016, it comprised a stratified sample of villages according to their respective contributions of labour migrants to the United Kingdom. Fully 10 villages (suco) were included in the survey but one of these, Fuiloro, which incorporates the district capital of Los Palos within its boundaries, represented fully 54.1% of the survey respondents due to the high numbers of labour migrants who come from this area (Table 10.1).9 The two surveys produced quite consistent results and in many respects confirmed those obtained by Schuaib in the 2008 survey. Men, both married and unmarred, remain much more likely to become labour migrants than young women. For married couples, there is a tendency for the wife and mother to remain in Timor-Leste with the children whilst her husband works overseas. But increasingly and over time, it is common for mothers and ­children to join their husbands and settle in the United Kingdom. Generous social ­security benefits for resident families in the United Kingdom are an additional attraction, but ­personal circumstances have a marked influence here. Both surveys highlight the dramatic increase in migrant departures after 2006 as its ­popularity as a livelihood option grew and access to the migration channels opened up.10 The greatest numbers of labour migrants have occurred since 2010, and it is of interest that the majority of those who elect migration are categorized as either unemployed (dezempregu) or recent graduates of high school and students attending tertiary institutions. Continued poor 139

Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro Table 10.1  F  ataluku labour migrant characteristics

Gender of migrants Age at departure

Year of departure

Status/livelihood prior to labour migration Marriage status Sponsors in Lisbon

Lautem and Dili survey (54hh)

Asia Foundation survey (357hh)

90.5% male 9.4% female 30 years 18.5% Pre-2002 9.2% 2002–2006 7.4% 2006–2010 32.3% (3.3%) 2011–2016 51.1% (0.8%) 16.7% employed 40.5% unemployed 35.7% student/graduate 61.2% single 38.8% married 47.6% V. Jourdāo 16.7% R. Martins 5.5% Sra Lobato 30.2% Other

89.1% male 10.9% women NA

86.9% of labour migrants departed for the United Kingdom, 2008–2014 Peak flow in 2012 = 20.4% 9.4% agriculture work 66.6% unemployed 17.2% students 60.6% Single 39.4% Married NA

employment conditions and a marked lack of work opportunities in the Timor-Leste economy, especially in rural areas, is one of the push factors for migration (McWilliam 2015). High school graduates in our survey who failed to secure places at university or employment in town, very often elected the temporary labour migration option as an attractive pathway to build savings and experience prior to pursuing further studies in later years.

Working in the United Kingdom As the focus of the surveys was principally directed to the experiences of Fataluku resident households with family members in the United Kingdom, there was a limited focus on the nature of the migrant work and travel experience per se. But the surveys do provide some broader information on the UK migrant experience. Further surveys of migrant returnees are in train and designed to capture this comparative set of experiences in more detail. The Asia Foundation survey, for example, showed that the great majority of labour ­migrants settled and found employment in England (88.1%) with a minority (11.6%) working in ­Northern Ireland. Our survey broadly corroborated those numbers with 66.6% reportedly based in E ­ ngland and 8.9% in Northern Ireland but with a significant contingent, 24.3% of respondents, who did not know where their relative was currently resident. This is consistent with our experience that there is considerable variation in knowledge amongst households about the actual whereabouts and work that their children or husbands are pursuing. The term Inglatera (England) or Erlandia (Northern Ireland) is often used somewhat imprecisely as a general locative catch-all. Furthermore, there is also considerable mobility amongst migrants themselves and people may spend time in both regions for different periods of time. Given the nature of the familial ties and kin-based networks that are sustained and reproduced between migrants, there is also a tendency for Fataluku, and East Timorese migrants more generally, to concentrate in particular towns or cities. Fataluku, for example, are well represented in places like Dungannon and Port O’Down 140

Brexit worries Table 10.2  F  ataluku migrant employment in the United Kingdom (54 respondents) Restaurant 29.6%

Hotel/pub 13%

Factory 46.3%

Other 1.8%

Not known 9.2% (7.4)

(Northern Ireland) where there are some thousands of resident East Timorese mostly working in the meat-packing factories of the region (see Peake 2013). Other centres, such as Oxford, Peterborough, Liverpool, London and Bristol, amongst other cities, are also well represented and to a degree reflect the recent historical patterns of migration flows.11 Due to the active use of social media, many other households have very specific knowledge of the whereabouts of their relatives and the towns and businesses in which they work. Table 10.2 presents a summary of the type of work undertaken by the UK-based migrants. These employment categories are consistent with the widely reported practice of securing work opportunities in the minimum wage sector at around £250 per week. Factory work was the most prevalently reported employment. This category includes Fataluku migrants working on the BMW vehicle production line in Oxford, which has attracted a growing number of applicants who secure work through contract hire agencies. Low wage shift work on the factory line is widely available in different areas where industrial estates support supermarket packaging and distribution businesses and bulk handling of goods, but these are not always full-time occupations and, in times of economic slowdown, shift workers often find their hours reduced.

Sustaining connections with home One of the striking consequences of the growing numbers of young Fataluku electing to take the labour migrant route to the United Kingdom as a livelihood option has been an equally strong commitment to share the benefits of their labour and experiences overseas and maintain close communication with their families and friends back home. This increased frequency of communication is facilitated and been sustained by the rapid expansion of communications between migrants and source communities. As part of both the household surveys, questions were asked about the frequency of communication and interaction. In the Lautem-based Asia Foundation survey, 42.6% of respondents said that they communicated on a weekly basis with their relatives in the United Kingdom, whilst as many as 25.2% said they did so daily (Reis et al. 2016:33). The most commonly mentioned technology was Facebook, and to a lesser extent Skype and Viber, where low cost and improved communication infrastructure in Timor-Leste has dramatically improved connections and reliability.12 Similar responses were provided to our survey of Fataluku respondents in Lautem and Dili, with 53.8% reporting regular communication and 9.6% talking on a daily basis.13 Preferred platforms included Skype, Facebook, Viber and mobile phones. It is also apparent that the impact of this greatly increased and regular transnational communication in recent years has been a significant factor in the willingness and ability of migrants to maintain their social relationships with their families and communities in Timor-Leste. The tyranny of distance has collapsed through digital technologies and this means that young migrants in the distant United Kingdom are much more likely to participate in the social events in the village and fulfil the expectations of their families where in the pre-Internet past, lengthy gaps in communication severed that sense of active participation in social life. One of our interlocutors recalled his experiences in the previous decade 141

Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro

when telephone calls from the United Kingdom cost £10 or more and precluded lengthy or regular conversations. The extent of the change since then was brought home to one of us (McWilliam) very clearly during a visit to friends in the hamlet of Lere Loho (Los Palos). There, via the magic of a virtually free IMO video call, a lengthy chat ensued with Olivio D.S. as he rode his bicycle to the BMW factory to begin his morning shift on a fine summer morning in Oxford, England. The capacity for this kind of live-streaming experience provides an immediacy to the migrant experience that, whilst never a satisfying, alternative to a physical presence enables a powerful sense of emotional connection and coeval presence. It has also been very evident for some time amongst those following the emergence and growth of the informal labour migration to the United Kingdom that there have been significant economic benefits accruing to Timor-based households in receipt of remittances and support from their loved ones. The capacity and willingness of the UK-based migrants to allocate savings from their wages and direct remittances to their families at home is another striking impact of the continuing strength of the familial transnational relationships. Both household surveys confirm the significance of cash remittances from the United Kingdom to relatives in Timor-Leste, usually via the reliable if expensive Western Union financial transfers.14 These social transfers of export earnings have had a highly significant and beneficial impact on recipient households, but a detailed enumeration of the variable transfers is difficult to capture in a broad survey. The results of the Asia Foundation study (357 Fataluku households) indicate, for example, that 45% of respondents reported regularly receiving between USD 1,000 and 3,000 over two to five months (Reis et al. 2016:27), which gives a sense of the scale of support provided. In comparative terms, it means that these households are generating up to three times the average income of rural households in Timor-Leste (Lao Hamutuk 2013). It also supports Schuaib’s conclusions on the impact of UK-sourced remittances that ‘(h)ouseholds with members working overseas are better off financially by many multiples than households pursuing local employment’ (2008:196). As to how these funds are expended, there is a consistent pattern with Schuaib’s (2008:209) report based on his 105 household samples in Dili. Those results showed that (45%) of cash remittances were used to support daily household consumption, a further (41%) for housing improvements, (30%) for school fees and (10%) for loan repayments. Most were also saving a portion of these funds, which they then directed into education expenses (75%), housing improvements (35%), weddings and funerals (18%) and business investment (10%). There is, however, a great deal of variability between individual households; a variability that very much reflects the specific situation and needs of those households. From our survey results (54 households), we can say that the great majority of respondents (82%) reported receiving regular financial support from absent members working overseas. The amounts ranged from regular payments of USD 300 a month to intermittent contributions of USD 500 or more, usually when requested by the family. Another 12% of respondents had only recently begun working overseas and were still generating savings. A minority of households with children working overseas refuse to ask them for assistance. As one father who disapproved of taking his children’s savings commented, ‘we send them over there for their futures not ours’. His view, however, was unusual in the scheme of things where a combination of continuing social demands and exchange obligations at home, and the desire for migrants to care for their parents, wives and children, results in frequent allocations for familial provisioning (Table 10.3). The distribution of remittances highlights the priorities of labour migrant savings allocations. Up to half of the remittances are report to support Timor-based household consumption, especially the purchase of food staples like rice. House construction, education 142

Brexit worries Table 10.3  Distribution of remittances (n = 54)a Consumption

House building

Education costs

Cultural gifts

Other

53.7%

35.2%

22.2%

27.7%

7.4%

a Does not sum to 100 due to respondents directing remittance for multiple purposes.

of siblings or younger relatives, and what are glossed as cultural gifts are the other three key priorities. Education is a significant objective for many Fataluku households and migrants frequently contribute to the education aspirations of younger siblings (cf Bexley 2009). Cultural gifts are indicators of the extent to which labour migrants participate in the continuing cycles of obligatory gift exchange that shape life-cycle rituals and sociality in Fataluku extended family networks (e.g. funerals, marriages, baptisms, end of mourning ceremonies, sacrificial ceremonies, ritual healing procedures). The comparatively high expenditure in this category suggests that migrants remain closely engaged and connected to the daily rhythms and events of everyday family life in Timor-Leste. Regular flows of remittances have greatly benefitted households and communities in receipt of funds. Settlements like Ira Ara and Lere Loho in the district capital of Los Palos have been completely transformed in appearance as the great majority of households have embarked on major house-building projects. Similar transformations are also occurring in other settlements around Lautem district where labour migration has been popular. These construction projects have in turn encouraged investment in the local construction sector with cinder block production and the sale or purchase and leasing of larger Colt Mitsubishi tip trucks for haulage and sand deliveries. The whole process has seen significant economic expansion for recipient communities and contrasts dramatically with rural landscapes elsewhere in Timor-Leste that have not benefitted from similar kinds of external financial windfalls. Finally, we note that both recent surveys enquired about the prevalence of return visits amongst UK-based migrants. The results once again are broadly consistent. The Asia Foundation survey found that fully 46.8% of migrants had never physically returned to the hamlet since they departed but as many as 40.7% visited annually, most of them for up to a month (Reis et al. 2016:35). In comparison, the results of our own survey found that 20.3% had not yet returned from overseas, although they were often in regular communication, whilst 53.7% of migrants had returned at least one time. In the second example, the majority of those who had not yet returned were recent migrants (since 2014) and had not generated sufficient savings to afford the ‘holiday’ (in English) as many seem to refer to these breaks these days. The practice of taking ‘holidays’ to visit relatives in Timor-Leste is increasingly common and reflects a combination of the more intense communication between the United Kingdom and Timor-Leste and the availability of paid holiday time for workers in the United Kingdom. But it is also a reflection of the global deregulation of airlines that have created opportunities to purchase bargain-priced airfares for the long return journey from Heathrow to Dili via mandatory stopovers in Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia.

Implications for the future For all the reasons discussed above, the Brexit vote to leave the European Union came as a shock to many Fataluku migrant households along with other East Timorese participants in the lucrative UK employment market. What were the consequences and implications of the 143

Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro

Brexit vote? Would they be turned away at the border with their Portuguese passports and refused work opportunities that have been so beneficial for their families in Timor-Leste? What alternatives were available? At that time of course, no one had any real idea of the consequences of Brexit in practice. But we tended to agree with one of our contacts, Arnaldo DJ who is a veteran of the UK labour migration experience, having left for Portugal in 2001 because of the absence of work opportunities in Los Palos. He has been travelling back and forward for years and was home to see his family and supervise work on his fine new house that was nearing completion. Arnaldo’s view was that those who are established residents and workers, with bank accounts and legal entitlements, will probably be permitted to continue living and working in the United Kingdom.15 The ones who may struggle are the new labour migrant aspirants with no clear connections or in-country track record. At the same time, one of the reasons why so many East Timorese are able to secure work in the United Kingdom is that they are willing to accept repetitive, low-skilled work for minimum wages, for the principal reason that in comparative terms it is far more lucrative than anything available in Timor-Leste. It also means that for those who commit to a sustained savings programme, it is possible to achieve previously unimagined levels of economic wellbeing for themselves and their families. Certainly now two years since the controversial Brexit vote result, if anything the flow of young East Timorese migrants to the United Kingdom has only increased. This is no doubt a reflection of the widely held view that it the best insurance for securing work in the United Kingdom is to complete registration requirements in-country before access is restricted. One measure of the real level of financial contribution that the informal UK m ­ igration pathways have been making to households and participating families in Timor-Leste is ­ estern Union provided in the Asia Foundation report relating to the favoured method of W cash transfers to Timor-Leste. According to the report, a total of nearly USD 25 million ($24,933,632) was remitted in 2015 and of this amount, fully 75% of the funds derived from the United Kingdom (USD 18,700,227) (Reis et al. 2016).16 In comparative terms, these transfers are greater than the current total export value of the Timor-Leste tourism industry and the coffee crop and means that informal labour migration now provides a highly significant source of non-oil revenue for the country (see also Curtain 2018).17 We note that these figures are unlikely to capture all the total remitted funds from the UK employment given that many returning and visiting labour migrants usually carry with them substantial amounts of undeclared cash (both their own and that of friends in the United Kingdom) for distribution to specific relatives and family in Timor. Leaving that aside, the fact remains that labour migration to the United Kingdom 18 points to a very significant alternative livelihood pathway for many young East Timorese. This is in a context where domestic unemployment and underemployment remain endemic in-country, and where Timor-Leste’s high dependency on dwindling oil revenues looks unsustainable in the absence of any new petroleum development projects (Scheiner 2015). The value of the expanding United Kingdom chain migration trend also goes well b­ eyond measuring financial benefits. It is evident that through the communicative ­immediacy of social media and increased frequency of return visits, new avenues for the expression and maintenance of sociality are being created and elaborated through a merging of temporal perceptions. As expressions of what Giddens (1991) calls ‘distanciation’, or the stretching of time and space, these processes include novel forms of reciprocity that work to g­ enerate a significantly expanded field of Fataluku social relations. East Timorese transnational socialities, in other words, are increasingly translocal, reciprocal and experienced as contemporaneous 144

Brexit worries

fields where migration no longer signals permanent separation and loss but new forms of globalized social relationships grounded in shared histories of origin and enduring familial engagement. In this dynamic period, Fataluku households and communities are once again negotiating the terms of engagement for tradition in the shifting uncertainties of a post-modern world.

Notes 1 By this term, Hannerz (1992) sought to define the expansion of cultural interconnections and cosmopolitanism at a global level. 2 Resistência Nacional dos Estudantes de Timor-Leste. 3 The Catholic Church, particularly through its support organisation, the Catholic Relief Service was active in their assistance as were a number of academics and their institutions that provided support. 4 It is curious that the United Kingdom is not specifically identified as one of the named countries of residence for Timorese expatriates, particularly given that it has the highest number. Whether this reflects a Portuguese bias or a reluctance to enumerate the very small numbers of Timorese living in continental Europe is unclear. The fact is that after Indonesia (7284), the United Kingdom is by far the most populous place of expatriate residence for Timor-Leste citizens (albeit carrying Portuguese passports). 5 Now subsumed within the Commonwealth Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. 6 Schuaib observed that the majority of cases discussed involved labour migrants from rural areas of Timor-Leste but did not identify the origin settlements of the respondents. I suspect that many of the households in the survey were Fataluku participants given their high prominence amongst labour migrants during the early years of independence. 7 In the 2015 Timor-Leste National Census, there was a question that enquired about the location of family members who were living overseas at the time. Analysis of the answers provides at least a rough guide to the number of Timorese citizens currently residing in the United Kingdom. 8 Current completed interviews – the survey was designed to cover up to 80 respondents. 9 Suco Fuiloro has 11 constituent hamlets or aldeia – including Ira Ara and Lere Loho, which have been key participating communities in the labour migration flows and in many respects represent the epicentre of the Timor-Leste migration story to the United Kingdom. The fact that 10 villages had sufficient number of migrants to qualify for the sample shows the widespread popularity of the UK migration option. 10 A significant factor in the growth of patterns in chain migration is the existence of family members already resident in the United Kingdom. As the numbers grew, more people had access to relevant information and resident sponsors to help them make the transition, find accommodation and employment. The year 2006 also marked the crisis in Timor-Leste, which saw a fracturing of the military and police force along with outbreaks of communal violence especially in Dili. 11 McWilliam’s ethnographic research in the United Kingdom suggests that financial constraints created by the Global Financial Crisis encouraged young East Timorese to venture further afield in search of work, such that they are now found in dozens of locations across the United Kingdom. 12 Prior to 2012, Internet communication across Lautem was quite restricted and unreliable. 13 A further 9.6% were said to be infrequent or rarely communicating. The frequency of calls is likely to be related to the ages of migrants and the length of time away. Younger and more recent travellers often called more frequently. 14 Western Union accounted for around 98% of transfers from the United Kingdom whilst the ­relatively new competition, Moneygram, attracted less than 2% of transfers. ­ ondon, 15 Arnaldo himself also makes a point of renewing his passport at the Portuguese Embassy in L rather than through official channels in Lisbon as many of the other young migrants do – usually paying their sponsors to deal with the Portuguese bureaucracy. He does so to generate a formal track record of living in England. 16 In terms of total remittances derived from all expatriate Timorese residents outside the country, it is estimated that more than USD 40 million was remitted to Timor-Leste in 2017, made up of over 85,000 individual payments (Curtain 2018).

145

Andrew McWilliam and Carmeneza Dos Santos Monteiro 17 In Schuaib’s 2008 report, it was estimated that UK-based migrants were remitting up to USD 5 million per annum to Timor-Leste, a figure that has been exceeded by a factor of six in the intervening seven years. 18 To a lesser extent, this includes participation in various Timor-Leste government–sponsored labour exchange agreements with Korea, Malaysia and Australia. These formal schemes, whilst beneficial for most of the participants, do not generate anywhere near the same level of export income as the informal UK system.

References Bexley, A. (2009) Getting an Education: Links to Indonesian Schools and Universities Remain Strong in East Timor. Inside Indonesia 96 (April–June). www.insideindonesia.org/getting-an-education. Curtain, R. (2018) ‘Remittances biggest export earner for Timor-Leste after oil’, Development Policy Centre, Blogpost. (see http://www.devpolicy.org/remittances-biggest-export-earner-for-timorleste-after-oil-20180322/) Esteves, S. (2012) Kontribusi Tenaga Kerja Timor-Leste di Inggris dalam Peningkatan Pendapatan Keluarga, Dili: Skripsi Fakultas ilmu Pemerintahan, Universidade Nacional Timor Lorosa’e. Giddens, A. (1990) The Consequences of Modernity, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Giddens, A. (1991) Modernity and Self Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, Cambridge: Polity Press. Hannerz, U. (1992) Cultural Complexity: Studies in the Social Organisation of Meaning, New York: ­Columbia University Press. Lao Hamutuk (2013) Understanding Timor-Leste’s Context, 13 June, Available at http://laohamutuk. blogspot.com.au/2013/06/understanding-timor-lestes-context.html (accessed 10 January 2018). McWilliam, A.R. (2012) ‘New Fataluku diasporas and landscapes of remittance and return’, Special Issue, Nation-Formation, Identity and Change in Timor-Leste, Local-Global: Identity, Security, Community 11: 72–85. McWilliam, A.R. (2015) ‘Urban-rural Inequalities and migration in Timor-Leste’, In A New Era: Timor-Leste after the UN, S. Ingram, L. Kent and A. McWilliam (eds), pp. 225–234, Canberra: ANU Press. Peake, G. (2013) Beloved Land: Stories, Struggles, and Secrets from Timor-Leste, London, United Kingdom: Scribe Publishing. Pinto, C. and M. Jardine. (1997) East Timor’s Unfinished Struggle Inside the Timorese Resistance: A Testimony, Boston MA: South End Press. Rei, N. (2007) Resistance: A Childhood Fighting for East Timor, St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Reis J.S., L.D. Cabral and J.V. Valentim (2016) Impaktu Traballador Iha Ingleterra no Norte Irlandia be Prosperiedade Familia iha Munisipiu Lautem, Final Report, Jakarta: Asia Foundation, Jakarta, with support of PLG (Policy Leaders Group) and Australian Aid. Scheiner (2015) Can the Petroleum Fund Exorcise the Resource Curse from Timor-Leste? In A New Era: Timor-Leste after the UN, S. Ingram, L. Kent and A. McWilliam (eds), pp. 73–101, Canberra: ANU Press. Schuaib, F. (2008) East Timor Country Report, Canberra: Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. aid.dfat.gov.au/Publications/Documents/etimor_study.pdf Silva, C. da (2013) RENETIL Iha Luta Libertasaun Timor-Lorosa'e: Antes sem Título, do que sem Pátria! Dili: RENETIL. Thu, P.M. and I.M. da Silva (2013) The Australian Seasonal Workers Program: Timor-Leste’s Case, In Brief 2013/13, Canberra: State, Society and Governance in Melanesia Program (SSGM), ­Australian National University, Available at http://ssgm.bellschool.anu.edu.au/sites/default/files/­ publications/attachments/2015-12/SSGM_IB_2013_13_Proof_3_0.pdf (accessed 4 January 2018). Timor-Leste Government (2015) Timor-Leste Population and Housing Census 2015, http://www. statistics.gov.tl/category/publications/census-publications/2015-census-publications/­volume-2population-distribution-by-administrative/ (accessed 23/12/18) [Section 8 Population living abroad] Wigglesworth, A. and Z. Fonseca (2016) Experiences of Young Timorese as Migrant Workers in ­Korea, Paper presented at the 2016 Australasian Aid Conference, Canberra. Wigglesworth, A. and A. Boavida Dos Santos (2018) ‘Migrant Work and Homecoming – Experiences of Timorese Seasonal Workers’, Paper presented at the Symposium: Economic Dynamics and Social Change in the Making of Contemporary Timor Leste. Universidade de Brasilia J3–6 July 2016.

146

Social policies and the terms of inclusion

11 House-life, Oikopolitics, and the failures of social housing in Timor-Leste Gabriel Tusinski

The Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste’s post-independence story has, in many ways, been about houses and housing. The well-documented destructive violence surrounding the 1999 referendum for independence (CAVR 2005; Tanter et al. 2001; Nevins 2005) and the 2006–2007 crisis (Shoesmith 2007; Devant 2008; Scambary 2009; Silva 2010; Moxham and Carapic 2013) has resulted in successive states of ruination. As a consequence, the task of building the institutions of the new nation-state has taken place alongside the reconstruction of nearly all of the country’s infrastructure, including urban and rural housing. This chapter assesses the failures of two prominent social housing programs that emerged in the wake of the 2006 crisis (krize). The crisis was a breakdown of social order that started as a result of claims of regional discrimination in the military and subsequently radicalized regional East/West affiliations in gang violence that culminated in mass destruction and displacement in Dili. By way of response, the Hamutuk Hari’i Uma (‘Building Houses Together’) pillar of the post-crisis national recovery strategy (NRS) first offered cash ‘packages’ to internally displaced people (IDPs) to rebuild houses, but the vagaries of implementation promoted the widespread diversion of cash grants to other culturally marked uses. The second project, the 2011–2015 Millenium Development Goals Suco Program, was a Five-Year Plan to build ‘five houses in each village’ (uma lima kada aldeia) that has resulted in ghost-towns of low-quality modular dwellings which stand largely abandoned by the ‘vulnerable people’ they were intended to shelter. In what follows, I show how post-independence schemes to rebuild and improve housing have contributed to an oikopolitics – a politics of houses and housing – that focuses new relations of state ‘care’ and ‘abandonment’ on the culturally recognizable medium of domestic architecture. In using this phrasing, I depart from post-Foucauldian theories of biopolitics, or late liberal governmental interventions that target the management of population-level life. In the examples below, I demonstrate how what can be considered to be biopolitical programs are made at once consonant and incongruous with Timorese cultural ideologies and reflexive sensibilities about houses as a qualitatively marked ‘form-of-life’ (Agamben 2000). Exemplifying an Austronesian ’epistemological orientation’ toward the tracing of ‘origins’ (Fox 1993:16), indigenous Timorese houses are irreducible socio-material composites combining architectural structures, attachments to ancestral places of origin, and hierarchically ordered networks of people understood to be the issue of mytho-historical ancestors. Houses 149

Gabriel Tusinski

both objectify and act as arenas for the (re)articulation of social belonging, status, and moral personhood through forms of ancestrally mandated practice. In short, to be a social person is to belong to a house, with all of the rights and moral obligations that such membership entails. This epistemological orientation has long been recognized among anthropologists of Timor, but how it influences Timorese people’s engagements with ‘modern’ quotidian dwellings, especially in the aftermath of mass destruction, has been rather curiously ignored. In an initial effort to fill this methodological gap, this essay brings the so-called traditional houses and modern housing into the same analytical frame.

‘Building Houses Together’ and ‘Five Houses for Each Village’ Hamutuk Hari’i Uma (Building Houses Together) was one of five pillars of the NRS-branded Hamutuk Hari’i Futuru (Building the Future Together) developed to address the humanitarian challenges of the 2006 crisis. The NRS was introduced in 2007 as a multi-ministry and nongovernmental collaboration to resettle more than 100,000 people, representing 6,363 households, who remained displaced by the crisis that destroyed or damaged an estimated 5,381 houses. At the time of the program’s introduction, about 30,000 IDPs still occupied 51 camps across Dili, while around 70,000 had taken refuge with family or friends in Dili or the rural districts (UNDP 2007:ii).1 The International Organization for Migration (IOM) IDP surveys suggested that while about 70% of the IDPs wished to return to their previous homes, many of their houses had been destroyed, damaged, or occupied during the crisis. The four other pillars of the NRS were structured around the same ‘Building _____ Together’ framework. These included ‘Confidence’, ‘Protection’, ‘Stability’, and ‘Social Economy’ (UN 2008: 1). Among implementing partners, Hamutuk Hari’i Uma was conceptualized as the baseline infrastructural pillar on which the others depended. For this reason, it was the most publically visible and widely discussed and was treated with the greatest urgency. The Ministry of Social Solidarity (MSS) was the lead ministry in charge of the program, with supporting roles played by the Ministry of Infrastructure (MOI) and Ministry of Justice (MOJ). These ministries were joined by international organizations in the pillar’s working group, which included the UN Development Programme (UNDP), the IOM, and the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC). At its inception, the program was to offer options for IDP resettlement. Those who wished and were able to return to destroyed or damaged homes could choose between a cash grant of up to $4,500 – depending on an MOI assessment of damage to the house – or a government built basic house (uma baziku) assessed at a cash value of $3,000, plus a cash grant of $1,500. Those who could not or did not wish to return because of ongoing community tensions, lack of security, or house occupation by others would be given the option to construct a new house on state-approved land using a similarly allocated cash recovery grant, or a ‘basic house’ in a state-allocated resettlement site. Finally, IDPs who wished to return to their original houses but were unable to do so because of similar barriers could relocate to transitional shelters until impediments to return were resolved. This comprehensive version quickly succumbed to the realities of implementation, and the resulting program looked substantially different. The ease of the cash grant system, coupled with the cost and difficulty of procuring, storing, and distributing vast quantities of building materials, resulted in cash handouts being seen as the only viable option (UNDP 2010:18). Furthermore, open public land of sufficient size to accommodate housing projects proved difficult to find under the pressure of time. Peter Van der Auweraert, an IOM post-conflict land reparations specialist, who worked on the program, suggests that ‘…informal consultations 150

House-life, Oikopolitics, and social housing

with IDPs showed resistance to the very idea of g­ overnment-provided housing and a strong desire to receive cash over any other type of remedy’ (2012:8). By his assessment, ‘…not a single IDP selected [the basic house] option’ (2012:8). This was in part due to a reticence to relinquish control over both the physical locations and the material-aesthetic form of the houses themselves. The cash option offered a wider range of possibilities for house location, design, and freedom of movement. Indeed, for many older people the proposed government housing projects bore some traumatically uncomfortable resemblances to the ‘new settlements’ (pemukiman baru) into which most Timorese were moved as mechanisms of social control and surveillance during the occupation era (Budiardjo and Liem 1984:76). Wise (2006:27) suggests that approximately 80% of villagers were resettled in towns or villages of this sort during the occupation. They were relocated from the rich variety of preinvasion house types into purportedly modern and sanitary prefabricated housing in ‘model villages’ along roads or in flat, low-lying areas, where they were expected to cultivate cash crops for export, all the while provided with wholly insufficient cropland for their own subsistence cultivation (Shepherd 2014:109). It was partly as a result of this reticence that around May 2008, the MOI abandoned its plans to build better public housing, effectively removing houses from the housing program. Hamutuk Hari’i Uma thus became colloquially known as the pacote (‘package’) program since it offered cash relocation or recovery packages to support reconstruction and resettlement. These cash payouts became the sole purview of the MSS, which registered IDP claims, conducted site verification, and distributed cash. Packages were tiered from $500 for minor damage to $4,500 for completely destroyed houses, a lump sum, it should be noted, larger than many IDP’s had ever seen in their lives. Ostensibly earmarked for building materials, there was no way to guarantee that this money was actually used for the program’s intended purpose. An initial idea was to disburse the funds in two payments, the second of which would require verification of the use of the first for reconstruction of a basic house. But this approach was also scrapped since verification criteria were underspecified, the bureaucratic lag would delay IDPs departure from the camps, and it could potentially foster corruption between officials and beneficiaries (Auweraert 2012: 8–9). Cash payouts were thus issued in single lump sums requiring no further verification. Uncertainty about the use of the cash grants emerged as the single biggest criticism of the program. A 2010 UNDP tender notice for the program’s assessment accepted that cash grants were often diverted away from their intended purpose ‘to ensure adequate shelter for those receiving it’ (2010:19). Drawing from a UN report from the Representative of the ­Secretary-General on the Human Rights of Internally Displaced People, the tender overview emphasized IDPs needy utilitarianism in their (mis)use of the packages: …[T]he Representative was informed by many returnees that they needed part of the money to survive in the absence of livelihood opportunities…others may have invested such money in consumer goods… …[S]ome IDP’s have adopted a ‘wait and see’ attitude toward rebuilding and much of the ‘recovery package’ has been exhausted on immediate subsistence needs or purchasing physical goods. (UNDP 2010: 19) But the UN report does not elaborate on the nature of the ‘consumer’ or ‘physical goods’ purchased or the uses to which they were put. These diversions may in fact have contributed to the revalorization of houses as nodes in networks of place-based belonging while 151

Gabriel Tusinski

simultaneously downplaying the immediate utilitarian imperative to rebuild domestic ­shelter. Anecdotal accounts from former IDP’s and program administrators described how earmarked funds were commonly diverted into expenditures that, while not rebuilding a house qua dwelling, contributed perhaps more consequentially and permanently to household networks of belonging and protracted inter-group obligations. For instance, I was told that in the early days of the program, when building materials were being distributed to and/or heavily subsidized for claimants, that these were often channeled to the districts, to be given away to extended family members or even sold at a modest profit. These could then be used to build uma mutin (cement block houses), thereby expanding an extended ­family’s entitlement to empty spaces in rural villages, facilitating intergenerational transmission, and perhaps even eventual mythologization in narratives of ancestral origin and precedence (cf. Fitzpatrick, McWilliam, and Barnes 2012: 35). After that early phase ended, the pacote funds were reportedly sometimes used to buy cars to convert into taxis with which to support a family, or motorbikes and scooters, consumer goods for everyday needs (rice, oil, and other food), and cows or even monetary contributions to barlaque marriage exchange obligations brought to bear in rituals of life and death, such as weddings, funerals, or the reconstruction of ancestral origin houses. These diversions broaden the definition of ‘houses’ beyond that intended by the program’s architects. As I and others have explored (McWilliam 2005, 2011; Bovensiepen 2015:12–14; Tusinski 2015), distribution of monetary and other resources that fulfill ritual obligations reinforces and reinvigorates spatio-temporally expansive networks of what many of my interlocutors referred to as ‘social security’. These contributions are often felt to be more dependably perduring than the one-off cash payments of still fairly weak institutions of state, or aid from foreign international agencies of dubious duration and commitment. Such ‘commodity diversions’ thus constitute an investment in ‘wealth in people’ (Guyer and Belinga 1995), promoting longer term ‘security’ (in social, economic, and cosmic terms) than immediate expenditure on building materials might otherwise provide. Even the purchase of a vehicle for a taxi stores money within a material form that is generative of more (monetary and nonmonetary value) (cf. Comaroff and Comaroff 2006:127). Among other benefits, it affords the accrual of social prestige and the mobility key for frequent trips to ancestral house rituals, weddings, and funerals that maintain links to ancestral ‘ghosts and kin’ (Hicks 1976) and to marriage exchange relations (Hicks 2012; Niner 2012; Silva and Simião 2012; Tusinski 2015). Motorbikes similarly link distant places through movement and visitation, enabling topogenic (Fox 1997: 8, 89) spatialized relations of remembrance and memorialization to be re-actualized. Both diversion and expenditure can thus be seen as rebuilding ‘houses’, albeit of a different sort than program’s planners may have foreseen. People also took advantage of the program’s structure. During the crisis, a young man in his 20s named E ____ fled his home and took refuge in the Jardim Nicolau Lobato IDP camp. In a 2011 conversation, he reflected on the pacote program’s irregularities. He said that after languishing in the camps, many IDPs saw the program as ripe for the picking, since it would be very difficult (if not impossible) to verify their claims through property records, the central registry of which had been purposefully destroyed in the referendum violence (Fitzpatrick 2002). He related how his chefe de aldeia (village chief, an elected local political figure who was supposed to be a neutral arbiter between returnees and the government) filed a claim listing all of the structures in his compound (including chicken coops, sheds, or outdoor kitchen spaces) as houses. On this basis, he was purportedly able to stake multiple claims and collect more than the $4,500 maximum listed in the official policy. E ____ also suggested that extended households would try to stake multiple fraudulent claims by sending 152

House-life, Oikopolitics, and social housing

different adult males from the household to register the same house on different days. If ­successful, they could thus accumulate a larger cash sum than any single claim. A former IOM ­administrator I interviewed also related cases of enterprising individuals converting empty land into ­‘destroyed houses’ by adding concrete rubble to vacant lots so as to receive a cash payout. Despite clear evidence of this systematic (mis)use and lack of regulatory oversight, the ­program was declared a success by the United Nations, since it was judged to have ‘alleviated the situation it set out to address’ (UNDP 2010). But with the exception of transitional shelters constructed by the NRC, the Hamutuk Hari’i Uma program did not really end up building ‘social housing’ at all. Rather, it relied on elevating displaced peoples’ purchasing power on the commodified free market. Whether, how, and where to rebuild was reframed as consumer choice. In 2010, the IOM issued a Portuguese and Tetun language pamphlet entitled Mai Hari’i Uma Diak (‘Let’s Build a Good House’). The pamphlet included accessibly written instructions and visual diagrams of ‘best-practices’ for small housing construction, regarding sanitation, ventilation, and orientation; basic construction techniques; and options for building materials and designs for maximal comfort (IOM 2010). It weighed each tier of housing option in terms of monetary expense and labor intensiveness, but also required tools/materials, transport, and the comfort of the product. As such, house construction and modes of dwelling were framed as functions of consumer desire and preference, filtered through a moralizing language of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ construction techniques. The most basic house in the pamphlet cost an estimated $6,300, a figure $3,300 higher than the MOI assessment of a ‘basic house’, and $1,800 higher than the top tier cash recovery grant offered by Hamutuk Hari’i Uma.2 What is more, the UN’s 2008 appeal for funding for the NRS stated that ‘[t]he [MOI] estimates that the cost of housing and infrastructure in a new site, including water, sanitation, drainage, electricity, and roads, is $10,000 per house’ (UN 2008: 32). The highest Hamutuk Hari’i Uma cash package thus provided less than half of the assessed cost of resettlement in a new location. By the end of 2008, an IOM survey of village heads calculated that only 25% of the houses damaged or destroyed in the 2006 crisis had been repaired or rebuilt (IOM 2008: 7). Nevertheless, the pacote program has had a substantial afterlife. It set an informal benchmark for expectations of government financial contributions to a host of housing and resettlement issues, including natural disasters (landslides, fires, or floods), cases of conflict in the districts, and the ever-growing numbers of state evictions. The sum of $4,500 remained a common reference point informing people’s perceptions of the role and purpose of the MSS in the years following the crisis, including the high-profile 2011 evictions of ‘informal settlers’ from the ex-Brimob barracks and the settlement at Ai Tarak Laran. A later project adopted a more direct approach to social housing. In 2011, the g­ overnment unveiled an ambitious plan to build 55,000 houses over a 5-year period. This ‘MDG Suco ­Program’ became colloquially known as Uma Lima Kada Aldeia (‘Five Houses for Each V ­ illage’) and was financed by the infrastructural fund of the Prime Minister in an effort to reach the Millennium Development Goals (MDG).3 As such, the houses are commonly referred to as ‘MDG houses’ (uma MDG). The plan was to build five prefabricated dwellings in each of Timor’s 2,225 villages (aldeia) to shelter ‘vulnerable populations’ (ema kbiit laek), defined as elderly or disabled people, female-headed households, widows, and veterans of the resistance (Wallis and Myat Thu 2013). In June 2011, the National Procurement Commission issued a tender on the project’s first phase: the construction of 11,855 houses throughout the 13 districts. According to Timorese NGO Lao Hamutuk, the 2011 State budget had allocated $44.6 million USD for the project, amounting to about $4,000 per house. A contract was awarded in September 153

Gabriel Tusinski

2011 to Carya Timor Leste and Jonize Construction for $144 million – more than twice the original budget allocation and assessed house cost ($10,800 per house). The contract was then reduced to $100 million by lowering the number of houses to 9,237, citing a ‘budget shortfall’ (Lao Hamutuk 2011). Plans were nevertheless in place to repeat the same level of expenditure with an anticipated output of 11,000 houses every year until at least 2015, notwithstanding the government’s cognizance of the program’s overpayment and under-delivery. I was hard pressed to find anyone in Dili – young or old – who felt that the program was not ‘good’ in its intentions. However, its implementation was cause for some concern, a fact reflected in a flurry of newspaper op-eds and articles. Initially, many of the perceived problems with the program revolved around allocating land on which the houses could be built. This was somewhat less of an issue for rural areas than it was for Dili, where tensions over ad hoc land use and legal ownership that had fueled the 2006 crisis remained unresolved. This meant that in the urban center, circumstances could change rapidly. For example, in a 2011 interview with Suara Timor Lorosae, chefe de suco of Fatuhada Marcelino Soares soberly stated that Dili…is a bit contradictory. The government intends to make houses, but to implement this is very difficult because there is not yet an urban plan… if the day after tomorrow there was some clear urban plan, they would destroy these houses again. It is the government that loses. (Suara Timor Lorosae 2011, author’s translation) The real problems began with the MDG houses’ construction. The final product looks very different than the proposal presented for budgetary approval. Rather than five environmentally sensitive houses tucked neatly into villages, the project has produced abandoned ghost-towns of hundreds of prefabricated houses. Usually located on the fringes of suku administrative centers, they often have unreliable electricity, little or no access to water, and rudimentary sanitation systems that empty into open sewage troughs creating the conditions for illness and disease (Wallis and Myat Thu 2013). The collective consensus expressed in myriad newspaper articles and news broadcasts was that these houses did not have quality (la iha kualidade; Suara Timor Lorosae 2013) or were of poor quality (kualidade la diak; The Dili Weekly 2012). But there was more to the houses’ inadequacy than their poor quality of construction. My conversations with MDG house occupants in Gleno, Ermera revealed common concerns that the houses themselves been built very far from their family relations, but are too small and ill-equipped to accommodate overnight visitors who make trips to visit them, especially large groups traveling en masse for funerals or weddings. In a newspaper interview, one self-described ‘vulnerable’ inhabitant described the ‘restrictive’ conditions (halo ita book-an la diak) as follows: It’s good that the state made us these houses, but there is one part that makes us a little unhappy because these houses are too cramped. If some family comes there are no sleeping areas…We want to request that if the state wishes to make houses for vulnerable people, could they make them a little bit more spacious, because our families come to visit us and just have to sleep patiently in the living room. (The Dili Weekly 2011; author’s translation) Another problem expressed by my Gleno interviewees was that the houses have been built far from ancestral villages, from commonly held plots of arable land upon which much of the rural population depends for subsistence and cash income, as well as from social support networks and local social services. In the words of one Gleno interlocutor, 154

House-life, Oikopolitics, and social housing

Where we are from, we are free to grow a garden, we are free to raise animals…but here we can’t even make a garden! So these houses are for vulnerable people, but it’s almost like…if I go [to the MDG house] it’s even more difficult for me here! (author’s translation) Wallis and Myat Thu have also described the difficulties of this situation from the perspective of development studies, emphasizing food security, services, sanitation, or access to livelihoods: Each household only has a small plot of land surrounding their dwelling to grow food. Some families have planted maize, peanuts, and vegetables, but as they wait for their first harvest they are reliant on larger family fields at a distance for everyday consumption and income. A number of residents raised chickens, and stressed that they were strictly not permitted to keep other livestock such as pigs, goats, or cattle in the settlement to maintain hygienic conditions. Once again, they turned to family relatives who had access to larger plots of land in the main village to rear animals and keep watch over them. Ironically, by constructing these MDG houses away from local communities, they may do more harm by limiting access to kin relations, livelihood resources, and social services for those who need them most. (2013: no pagination) In these accounts, we see how house-based social relations often in far-flung places are commonly invoked to fill the breach opened by this new form of settlement. Two comments on the uma MDG program stand out in their attention to the nonutilitarian reasons why resettlement in the uma MDGs continues to be so undesirable even for self-identified ‘vulnerable people’. A 2015 article in the Timor Business Journal reported how beneficiaries in Matai, Covalima district, which received 175 MDG houses, ‘lamented their lack of electricity’ (Timor Business Journal 2015). However, in the same piece, a suku spokesperson offered a statement justifying the houses’ abandonment by their recipients: ‘It is very true that these houses are for vulnerable people. But some of our elder mothers and fathers don’t wish to live in the MDG houses because they are guarding/keeping their uma fukun (lulik)’. To ‘watch over or guard a named ancestral origin house’ (hein uma fukun/lulik) here refers to living in or close by an ancestral house, and holding to ritual responsibilities and obligations pertaining to ancestral veneration, such as food preparation and feeding, and maintaining a flame in the house hearth as signs of ancestral contentment and presence, respectively. I have also heard the same phrase used to describe recently deceased people’s expressed wishes to be buried in family cemeteries or ossuaries in their hamlets of origin (knua) rather than in Catholic cemeteries in Dili. Both are demonstrations of commitment to points of origin and the social rights and responsibilities that it entails. In another case, a photograph of the inauguration of MDG houses posted on social media prompted the following critique from an educated urban male acquaintance: The MDG Houses. A development program that will not last and is not good, because we move people out of their daily life conditions so that [they] abandon many things from their real birthplace [moris fatin loloos]. But, we must accept and tolerate this life until conditions improve… The construction of the MDG houses doesn’t match up with the existing reality in Timor-Leste. (Author’s translation, emphasis added) 155

Gabriel Tusinski

Conclusion: Oikopolitics and the meaning of ‘life’ I have suggested that social housing projects are often seen as ‘biopolitical’ interventions since they marshal statistical knowledge in efforts to improve or optimize the life c­ onditions of ­so-called vulnerable populations (Foucault [1976]1990). But what is intriguing about the cases above is that both involve self-identified ‘vulnerable’ people willfully ­abandoning ­efforts of government ‘care’ in favor of some other vision of how life should be lived. These examples trouble the internal limits of biopolitical governance itself, since they appear to challenge the meaning of ‘life’ that such interventions invoke and/or imply. Much as ­Farquhar and Zhang have argued in their study of ‘life nurturing’ in urban China: [E]fforts to fix the meaning of life constantly fail…People are not simply living ­ rganisms adapted to ecological niches; our strategies for getting by are not entirely o explainable with biology or reducible to rational calculation. Everywhere we insist on the ­specificity, complexity, and quality of our lives…We are always engaged in “giving life to life” in a “myriad” of forms. (2012:11–12) The rationale for these housing programs then is rooted in fundamentally reductive visions of life as biological vitality. Following Lemke (2011:49), I find it useful to grasp ‘­biopolitics’ within the framework of Foucault’s historical analysis of governmentality – that is, ­( political) rationalities dedicated to the ‘conduct of conduct’ (Foucault 1982: 789–790; Huxley 2007: 196–197) or the ‘exercise of power as a mode of action on the actions of others’­(Foucault 1982:790). In this work, Foucault tracks a shift from the sovereign ‘right over life and death’ (Lemke 2011:35), through the ‘discipline’ of individual human ­bodies (Foucault ([1975]1977)), to the application of generative principles of economy once e­ mployed in the household ­(oikos), into the regulation of species and population-level life. ­Representing a new ‘political ­economy of life’, biopolitics conjures new modern ways of ‘knowing’ ­social collectivities through demographics, statistics, and censuses which, by synoptically c­ apturing life processes (births, deaths, health, life span, wealth, homelessness, etc.), facilitate ­interventions that ­ oucault draws ­m itigate ‘vulnerability’ or ‘risk’; however, these may be defined. In so doing, F on De Perriere’s productively vague definition of government as ‘…the right ­d isposition of things arranged so as to lead to a convenient end’ (2001:208), to pose a covert materialism behind the governmental management of life. As such, the sovereign right to ‘let live or make die’ is supplanted by relations of care and abandonment – of ­‘making live and letting die’ (Foucault 2003:241–242). By this logic, the s­ elf-limiting ‘frugality’ (even ‘austerity’) of provisioning and/or withholding things (such as houses, welfare benefits, or health care) gradually ­engenders a moralized imperative to enterprising self-reliance, s­ elf-regulation, and self-care – a neoliberal subjectivity (cf. Muehlebach 2012).4 Responding against Agamben’s (1998) revisionist argument that modern biopolitics represents nothing more than the generalization of the ‘archaic’ sovereign right to kill, Thomas Lemke (2011:60) has also shown how this notion of life as mere biological killability is less to the point than the ways in which biopolitical interventions aim to ‘improve’, ‘optimize’, or ‘develop’ certain life conditions (cf. Li 2007 on ‘The Will to Improve’). The matter at stake then is not mere ‘life and death’, but the right kinds of life and death. My discussion of the IOM ‘Let’s Build a Good House’ pamphlet and efforts to build ‘better’ social houses, exemplify these moral inflections. But as the above examples show, uptake of such interventions turns on sociocultural recognition. Insofar as houses remain important nodes of Timorese social 156

House-life, Oikopolitics, and social housing

life, any intervention into them (whether judged ‘good’ or ‘bad’ a ‘success’ or a ‘failure’) contributes to a reflexive sense of their ongoing and/or renewed social importance. To be sure, judgments like these are subject to ‘semiotic ideologies’ – sets of reflexive ideas about signs and how they work (Keane 1995, 2007) – that order divergent understandings of (among other things) what houses are, what they are for, and what they are related or connected to (cf. Stasch 2011). For present purposes, we can draw a useful contrast between Greek concepts of houses as domos vs. oikos to clarify this divergence. I invoke these concepts not to suggest their universal or transhistorical applicability, but rather as a heuristic for indexing different current views of housing in Timor. Through its Latin cognate domus, the Greek word domos (house) is the etymological root of ‘domicile’ and ‘domestic’, both suggestive of (power-laden) ­inclusion/ incorporation into a bounded spatial unit. Oikos, the root of ‘economy’, ‘ecology,’ and ­‘ecumene,’ points to a household’s generative connections to a broader lived world (including land, people, and other beings) existing within and beyond a structure’s walls. Tetun uma (and related terms in other Timorese languages) entails both of these semantic and pragmatic fields. But the housing programs discussed above seem to emphasize domos to the detriment of oikos. Both of the comments with which I ended the last section subtly imply that this notion of houses as (mere) domicile – utilitarian vessels for the containment of human life – is subordinated to a more commodious conception of houses as far more encompassing and dynamically interconnected structures of place-based belonging. This latter concept entails the moral imperative to maintain robust attachments to places of origin such as ancestral hamlets (knua), a notion of place-based locality often framed in the botanic idiom of ‘root’ or ‘base’ (huun in Tetun) (cf. McWilliam 2009). In post-independence Timor-Leste, ‘life-itself ’ remains inextricably bound with this v­ ision of ‘house-life.’ In light of their myriad social roles, we can consider houses as akin to what ­Agamben has called a ‘form-of-life’ – ‘a life that can never be separated from its form, a life from which it is never possible to isolate something such as naked [or bare] life’ (­Agamben 2000:3–4). Put another way, ‘A life that cannot be separated from its form is a life for which what is at stake in its way of living is living itself ’ (ibid. 4). It is in this respect that Timorese ‘life’ is irreducible to biology, since according to Timorese ideologies of generative ­productivity and fertility, regeneration of biological existence (human, animal, and ­vegetal) is contingent on following the ‘ways of the ancestors’ (dalan bei ala sira). These include (among others), ­mutual transgenerational obligations of exchange between house-based kin (­ McWilliam 2011), and practices of care and memorialization of ancestral spirits inhabiting origin houses and the lands surrounding them, as I and others have shown elsewhere (Hicks 1976, Fox 1980; Traube 1980; Bovensiepen 2009, 2014, 2015; Grenfell 2012; Tusinski 2015, 2016). As anchors of these connections-in-practice, houses and other associated material m ­ edia (betel nut, food, heirloom objects, tree bark, and stones taken from the land surrounding one’s ancestral origin house) play crucial mediating roles in reproducing biological and social life. As Fox (1980) has argued, ‘life’ flows from, through, and between houses. As such, they are the intermediate terms that help to (re)form the relations between people and the places to which they belong – including rural hamlets of origin (knua), urban neighborhoods, and even the nation-state itself ­(McWilliam 2005; Trindade and Castro 2007). As in McWilliam’s accounts of the role played by house-based networks in the clandestine resistance (2005) and of revitalization of house networks as a form of ‘cultural resilience’ in the wake of conflict (2011; cf. Bovensiepen 2015), in the ‘era of self-rule’ house-based loyalties, rights, obligations, and attachments are still of primary importance in filling the gaps engendered by independence. Indeed, by appearing weak through the inadequate provisioning 157

Gabriel Tusinski

of inadequate houses, the imperative of belonging in the new nation-state ­appears to rely upon the renewal of ‘house-life’. Returning to the chapter’s title, I propose that we can reframe Timorese experiences of biopolitical projects of social housing as an oikopolitics – a politicization of houses and housing – which logically entails the (re)production of ‘life’ in all of its varied manifestations: human reproductive generativity, crop and animal fertility, and familial health, safety, and security, among others. Viewed this way it is not surprising that these dwellings lay mostly abandoned by the ‘­vulnerable’ people they were supposed to shelter. Their abandonment indexes their n ­ onconformity to ­expected benefits of dwelling together in a locale. By promising to p­ rovide houses in each v­ illage, close to family ties, gardens, paddies, orchards, and pasturelands, as well as ritually important sites such as ancestral houses, cemeteries, and springs, the uma MDG ­program appeared to fit comfortably into this model of house-based belonging, and the materially ­saturated ­histories of inhabitation, stewardship, movement, and affective attachment that it entails. However, as the programs’ implementation tacked toward new settlements of cramped modular houses, the shelters provided by the government proved to be just not ‘house-like’ enough for their beneficiaries. Their abandonment under conditions of dire lack reveals that there is more to housing than shelter, though this of course remains a major consideration. Rather, even q­ uotidian houses are material-semiotic forms that index and facilitate (through visitation and ritual practice) culturally significant and constitutive connections between people and ancestrally inhabited places: a socioculturally qualified ‘form-of-life’. Indeed, it is no coincidence that this abandonment of social housing is occurring alongside the channeling of scarce resources into the reconstruction of ancestral origin houses destroyed during the occupation era (McWilliam 2005; Hicks 2007, 2008; Barnes 2011; Fox 2011; Bovensiepen 2015). It is also no accident that the 2017 parliamentary elections saw the perennial return of housing policy to the platforms of several parties. A notable instance was former President Taur Matan Ruak’s campaign speeches on behalf of his new People’s Liberation Party explicitly connecting the attainment of a ‘good life’ (moris diak) to access to houses and housing, identified (much as in Hamutuk Hari’i Uma) as the first and most important factor in a hierarchy of needs. In Baucau in July 2017, for instance, he outlined plans to expand subsidies for building materials in rural towns and villages, and to build low-cost government housing in cities and larger towns with long-term inheritable financing and repayment plans – a scheme he rather ironically compared to the Indonesian-era construction of Dili’s Surik Mas neighborhood. This came just two short years after, in his prior role as President of the R ­ epublic, Taur deemed the uma MDG program a ‘total failure’ (Suara Timor Lorosae 2015). Thus, the seeming inability of the nascent institutions of the Timorese nation-state to furnish vulnerable people with the conditions of a ‘good life’ – enabled in part by a quality house – is a departure from the expectation that the era of self-rule (tempu ukun rasik-an) would mark a return to tempu rai diak (‘the tranquil time’), a semi-mythic or utopian epoch of abundance and bounty framed as coterminous with a precolonial ‘time of the ancestors’ (tempu bei ala sira) (Trindade 2013). To paraphrase my aquaintance’s sentiment from the end of the previous section, the life afforded by MDG houses is less one to be celebrated or enjoyed than to be tolerated – ‘until conditions improve’. After all, ‘good life’ begins with a house, not just a domicile.

Notes 1 The number of IDP’s was approximately 10% of the total population. Details on damage and displacement can be found in the UNDP Damage Assessment Report (UNDP 2007:ii), the International Crisis Group’s 2008 report on the Displacement Crisis (International Crisis Group 2008), the IOM’s September–November 2008 Monitoring Report on Chefe de Aldeias Surveys (2008).

158

House-life, Oikopolitics, and social housing 2 This figure is based on 2009 commodity prices. 3 A suco (or suku in Tetun) is Timor-Leste’s smallest political administrative unit, below the level of ‘administrative posts’ (formerly subdistricts). Sucos are comprised of smaller aldeia communities, which are themselves made up of house-group hamlets (knua). 4 As made evident by ever-increasing voluntarist and entrepreneurial activities among Timorese youth.

References Agamben, G. (1998) Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Agamben, G. (2000) Means without Ends: Notes on Politics. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Auweraert, P. Van der. (2012) “Dealing with the Displacement Crisis in Timor-Leste: Between Reparations and International Policy Making.” Brookings-LSE Project on Internal Displacement. Barnes, S. (2011) “Origins, Precedence and Social Order in the Domain of Ina Ama Beli Darlari.” in Land and Life in Timor-Leste, eds. Andrew McWilliam and Elizabeth Traube. Canberra: ANU E-Press. pp. 23–46. Bovensiepen, J. (2009) “Spiritual Landscapes of Life and Death in the Central Highlands of East Timor.” Anthropological Forum. 19:323–338. Bovensiepen, J. (2014) “Paying for the Dead: On the Politics of Death in Independent Timor-Leste.” The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology. 15:103–122. Bovensiepen, J. (2015) The Land of Gold: Post-Conflict Recovery and Cultural Revival in Independent ­Timor-Leste. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Budiardjo, C. and S. Liem. (1984) The War Against East Timor. London: Zed Books. CAVR (Timor-Leste Commission for Reception, Truth, and Reconciliation) (2005) “Chega! Report of the Timor-leste Commission for Reception, Truth, and Reconciliation”. Comaroff, J. and John Comaroff. (2006) “Beasts, Banknotes, and the Colour of Money in Colonial South Africa.” Archaeological Dialogues. 12(2):107–132. Devant, S. (2008) “Displacement in the 2006 Dili Crisis: Dynamics of an Ongoing Conflict.” Working Paper Series, Refugee Studies Center, Oxford University. Farquhar, J. and Q. Zhang. (2012) Ten Thousand Things: Nurturing Life in Contemporary Beijing. New York: Zone Books. Fitzpatrick, D., A. McWilliam, and S. Barnes. (2012) Property and Social Resilience in Times of Conflict: Land, Custom, and Law in East Timor. New York and London: Routledge. Foucault, M. ([1975], 1977) Discipline and Punish. New York: Vintage Books. Foucault, M. (1982) “The Subject and Power.” Critical Inquiry. 8(4):777–795. Foucault, M. (2001) “Governmentality.” in Power: The Essential Foucault Volume 3, eds. Faubion and Rabinow. New York: The New Press. Foucault, M. (2003) “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the College de France 1975–1976. New York: Picador. Foucault, M. (2008) The Birth of Biopolitics: Lectures at the Collège de France 1978–1979. New York: Palgrave McMillan. Fox, J. 1993 [2006] “Comparative Perspectives on Austronesian Houses: An Introductory Essay.” in Inside Austronesian Houses: Perspectives on Domestic Designs for Living. Canberra: ANU E-Press. pp. 1–28. Fox, J. ed. (1997) The Poetic Power of Place: Comparative Perspectives on Austronesian Ideas of Locality. ­Canberra: The Australian National University Press. Fox, J. (2011) “The Articulation of Tradition in Timor-Leste.” in Land and Life in Timor-Leste, eds. Andrew McWilliam and Elizabeth Traube. Canberra: ANU E Press. pp. 241–257. Fox, J. ed. (1980) The Flow of Life: Essays on Eastern Indonesia. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University press. Grenfell, D. (2012) “Remembering the Dead from the Customary to the Modern in Timor-Leste.” Local/Global Identity, Security, Community. 11:86–110. Guyer, J. and S.M.E. Belinga. 1995. “Wealth in People as Wealth in Knowledge: Accumulation and Composition in Equatorial Africa.” Journal of African History. 36(1):91–120. Hicks, D. (1976) Tetum Ghosts and Kin. Palo Alto, CA: Mayfield Publishing Company. Hicks, D. (2007) “Community and Nation-State in East Timor.” Anthropology Today. 23(1):13–16.

159

Gabriel Tusinski Hicks, D. (2008) “Afterword: Glimpses of Alternatives–The Uma Lulik of East Timor.” Social Analysis. 52(1):166–180. Hicks, D. (2012) “Compatability, Resilience and Adaptation: The Barlake of Timor-Leste” in Local/ Global Identity, Security, Community, Volume 11. Melbourne: Globalism Research Center. Huxley, M. (2007) “Geographies of Governmentality.” in Space, Knowledge, and Power: Foucault and Geography, eds. Jeremy W Crampton and Stuart Eldon. Burlington: Ashgate Publishers. International Crisis Group. (2008) “Timor Leste’s Displacement Crisis.” Asia Report No. 148. IOM (International Organization for Migration). (2008) “Timor-Leste: A Profile of the Internal Displacement Situation.” Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre. IOM (International Organization for Migration). (2010) Mai Hari’i Uma Diak. Dili: International Organization for Migration. Keane, W. (1995) “The Spoken House.” American Ethnologist. 22(1):102–124. Keane, W. (2007) Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Mission Encounter. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lao Hamutuk. (2011) Analysis of the 2012 RDTL Budget. Online: www.laohamutuk.org/econ/ OGE12/10OJE2012En.htm [Accessed 11 July 2015] Lemke, T. (2011) Biopolitics: An Advanced Introduction. New York and London: New York University Press. McWilliam, A. (2005) “Houses of Resistance in East Timor: Structuring Sociality in the New Nation.” Anthropological Forum. 15(1):27–44. McWilliam, A. (2009) “Trunk and Tip in West Timor: Precedence in a Botanical Idiom.” in Precedence: Social Differentiation in the Austronesian World, ed. Michael P. Vischer. Canberra: ANU E-Press. McWilliam, A. (2011) “Exchange and Resilience in Timor-Leste.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute. 17:745–763. Moxham, B. and J. Carapic. 2013. “Unravelling Dili: The Crisis of City and State in Timor-Leste.” Urban Studies. 50(15):3116–3133. Meuhlebach, A. 2012. The Moral Neoliberal: Welfare and Citizenship in Italy. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Nevins, J. (2005) A Not-So-Distant Horror: Mass Violence in East Timor. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Niner, S. (2012) “Barlake: and Exploration of Marriage Practices and Womens’ Status in Timor-Leste.” Local/Global Identity, Security, Community Volume 11. Melbourne: Globalism Research Centre. Scambary, J. (2009) “Anatomy of a Conflict: The 2006–2007 Communal Violence in East Timor.” Conflict, Security, and Development. 9(2):265–288. Shepherd, C. (2014) Development and Environmental Politics Unmasked: Authority, Participation, and Equity in Timor-leste. Oxfordshire: Routledge. Shoesmith, D. ed. (2007) The Crisis in Timor-Leste: Understanding the Past, Imagining the Future. Darwin: Charles Darwin University Press. Silva, K. (2010) “Processes of Regionalization in East Timor Social Conflicts.” Anthropological Forum. 20(2):105–123. Silva, K. and D. Simião. (2012) “Coping with ‘Traditions’: The Analysis of East Timorese ­Nation-Building from the Perspective of a Certain Anthropology Made in Brazil.” Vibrant. 9(1):362–381. Stasch, R. (2011) “Kurowai Treehouses and the Everyday Representation of Time, Belonging, and Death.” The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology. 12(4):327–347. Lorosae, S.T. “Building Houses for Poor People in Dili is a Problem.” 12 July 2011. Lorosae, S.T. “Uma MDG’s La Iha Kualidade, Kompania BTK No Coment [sic].” 16 August 2013. Lorosae, S.T. (2015) “Taur Konsidera Implementasaun Uma MDG’s Failha Total” 16 August 2013. Tanter, R., M. Selden, and S.R. Shalom, eds. (2001) Bitter Flowers, Sweet Flowers: East Timor, Indonesia, and the World Community. New York: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, Inc. The Dili Weekly. “Harii Uma Lima Kada Aldeia, Vulneravel Uai Behe Ana Deskontente.” 16 ­September 2011. The Dili Weekly. “Status Uma Seidauk Los, Vulneravel Sunu Deit Lilin.” 31 January 2012. Timor Business Journal. “Uma MDG Suku Matai, Benefisiariu Sira Halerik ba Eletrisidade.” 31 ­August 2015. Traube, E. (1980) “Mambai Rituals of Black and White.” in The Flow of Life: Essays on Eastern I­ ndonesia, ed. J. Fox. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University press. Trindade, J. and B. Castro. (2007) Rethinking Timorese Identity as a Peacebuilding Strategy: The LorosaeLoromonu Conflict from a Traditional Perspective. Dili: GTZ/IS.

160

House-life, Oikopolitics, and social housing Trindade, J. (2013) “Matak Malirin, Tempu Rai Diak, no Halerik: Expressions of What Timorese Longed-for, Fought-for, and Died-for.” Paper presented at Symposium “Understanding TimorLeste 2013.” 4th Timor-Leste Studies Association Conference. Dili. Tusinski, G. (2015) The Spectral City: Cultural Belonging, Urban Space, and Post-Conflict Reconstruction in Dili, Timor-Leste (Doctoral Dissertation). University of Chicago, Dept. of Anthropology. Tusinski, G. (2016) “Fates Worse than Death: Destruction and Social Attachment in Timor-Leste.” Social Analysis. 60(2):13–30. doi: 10.3167/sa.2016.600202. United Nations. 2008. Timor-Leste Transitional Strategy and Appeal 2008. New York: United Nations. UNDP. (2007) Urgent Damage Assessment Report. UNDP. (2010) “Scope of Work: Assessment of the Cash Recovery Grants Distributed under the ­Hamutuk Hari’I Futuru Programme in Timor-Leste.” Procurement Notice. Wallis, J. and P. Myat Thu (2013) “The Difficulties of Development in Timor-Leste.” in Articles from the Development Policy Blog. Canberra: Development Policy Center. Wise, A. (2006) Exile and Return among the East Timorese. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Comaroff, J. and J. Comaroff. (2006) “Beasts, Banknotes, and the Colour of Money in Colonial South Africa. Archaeological Dialogues. 12(2):107–132.

161

12 Towards an integrated and accessible mental healthcare system in Timor-Leste Susana Barnes, Lisa Palmer, Ritsuko Kakuma and Benjamin Larke Introduction Transcultural psychiatric studies have long shown that culture shapes illness, including its symptomatic display, diagnoses, treatment and prognosis (Kleinman 1980). Most illnesses in Timor-Leste are attributed by sufferers to specific natural and supernatural causes and ­people (more so in rural areas) prioritise treatment by customary healers (Graves 2003; Kakuma et al. 2015). In more urban contexts, approaches to health and healing have been shaped by the influence of Christianity and particularly charismatic (and universalising) faith-healing practices common to both the Catholic and the Protestant traditions. Both customary and ‘modern’ informal healing practices are used interchangeably with clinical health systems (Edmonds et al. 2005; Graves 2003; Zwi et al. 2009). Although there is a high level of informal awareness amongst the Timorese themselves of these complementary practices, to date there has been only limited recognition of these within the formal healthcare system (Graves 2003; Hawkins 2010; MoH 2010). In this ­chapter, we first explore diverse understandings of health and healing in Timor-Leste and consider how these play out in the context of mental health. We then identify the range of customary and religious faith-based healers and healing practices commonly consulted by patients with mental illness and their families. Finally, we ask, if and how might customary, other religious and clinical approaches to mental health be woven together to improve equitable access to culturally competent and context-appropriate health services.

Research background This chapter brings together the results of different research projects on mental healthcare systems conducted by the authors in Timor-Leste.1 Between 2013 and 2015, Barnes, Palmer and Kakuma initiated an interdisciplinary scoping study together with the Ministry of Health (MoH) and the National University of Timor-Leste. The study aimed to improve understanding of Timor-Leste’s diverse customary and religious health and healing practices and explore the potential of integrating these practices with modern psychological and clinical approaches (Kakuma et al. 2015; Palmer et al. 2015a, 2017). 162

Healthcare system in Timor-Leste

Research for this study was developed from a diversity of sources including the work of two of the authors (Palmer and Barnes) who have each carried out long-term ethnographic research in diverse locations across Timor-Leste (Barnes 2011, 2013, 2017; Palmer 2007, 2010, 2015). Targeted research for the present study was conducted in three main locations, the capital Dili, the regional town of Baucau and the rural community of Venilale in the municipality of Baucau. Study participants, however, were drawn from 12 municipalities of Timor-Leste representing a variety of socio-cultural and linguistic groups.2 In-depth interviews and focus group discussions were conducted with key stakeholders, including policymakers (MoH and World Health Organization/WHO), mental health workers (including from the MoH, Psychosocial Recovery and Development in East Timor (PRADET) and Centro São João de Deus), patients and their family caregivers, as well as customary and faithbased healers. Data for this project were also collected through participant observation at a national-level forum in 2015 that brought together over 60 Timorese participants representing government, international agencies, academic and community stakeholders from across the country to present the preliminary findings of our scoping study and stimulate dialogue on mental health policy and practice in Timor-Leste. In 2016, Larke conducted further research focusing on the prevalence and nature of stigmatising attitudes amongst service providers in Timor-Leste towards mental illness and the interactions between stigma and other factors, including knowledge about mental illness and contact with people with mental illness (Larke and Bartik 2017).3 Study participants included mental health service providers from PRADET; the emergency department of the MoH’s Guido Valdares ­National ­Hospital, the Ministry of Social Solidarity’s Directorate of Social Development; the Bairo Pite Clinic – a non-governmental health clinic; and Klibur Domin, a local n ­ on-governmental organisation (NGO) that incorporates services to people with a mental illness as part of broader community health services.

Mental health services in Timor-Leste Evidence suggests that the most effective and comprehensive mental health service consists of a combination of both community- and hospital-based services (Thornicroft and Tansella 2009). Whilst considerable effort has been made since independence to develop ­community-based mental health services that are integrated into the mainstream health sector, the mental healthcare system in Timor-Leste faces numerous challenges.4 At present, there is one national hospital located in Dili at which the only national psychiatrist in the country is based, one large regional hospital and four smaller hospitals. No public inpatient mental health care is currently available in the country although there are plans to roll-out such services at both the national and regional levels in the future. The only inpatient mental healthcare facility in the country is delivered by an NGO - the Centro São João de Deus run by The Hospitaller Order of St. João de Deus (A Ordem Hospitaleira de S. João de Deus). Each municipality has an allocated mental health caseworker with basic training in mental health and a background in nursing or public health. Primary healthcare doctors and nurses are authorised to prescribe and/or renew prescriptions for some psychotherapeutic medicines. Primary healthcare nurses with mental health training are also authorised to diagnose or treat mental disorders. In terms of training, the majority of primary healthcare doctors have not received official in-service training on mental health within the past five years.5 Referrals for initial assessment can be made to counsellors working with one of two NGOs providing specific mental health services (PRADET based in Dili and the Centro São 163

Susana Barnes et al.

João de Deus in Laclubar). Priests and nuns in the Catholic Church also provide informal care through a range of pastoral services. Given the limited human and material resources available in Timor-Leste, both government and non-governmental mental health organisations recognise the central treatment and supporting role of community and family in the care of mentally ill (Hawkins and Tilman 2011; MoH 2010; Silove et al. 2008). Moreover, they also recognise the advantages of integrating local understandings of health and wellbeing into mental health policy and practice (Graves 2003; MoH 2010; Rodger and Steel 2016; Silove et al. 2008). At family and community levels, customary and religious (faith-based) health and healing practices often operate as alternative or complementary care to formal health services (see Graves 2003; Zwi et al. 2009). Yet, there have been few systematic attempts to document these practices, or determine the effects of specific therapeutic interventions or treatments in relation to mental health.6

Health-seeking behaviours and local understandings of mental health and wellbeing A 2004 epidemiological study found that 81% of those diagnosed with psychotic disorders consulted a ‘traditional’ or ‘customary’ healer (Silove et al. 2008). A preference for customary healers, however, is not necessarily specific to cases of mental disorder nor is it necessarily an indication of a conflict with clinical care. East Timorese populations draw on a range of sources of health-related knowledge and practice including ‘modern’ clinical, ‘customary’ ethnomedical, family-based or faith-based approaches (Graves 2003; Loch 2007; McWilliam 2008; Zwi et al. 2009). In fact, studies suggest that most individuals and families choose a combination of treatments, or may even switch between treatments if deemed ineffective (Edmonds et al. 2005; Graves 2003; Kakuma et al. 2015; Palmer et al. 2017; Rodger and Steel 2016). However, it is also the case that recourse to formal health services is often seen as a last resort (Graves 2003; Palmer et al. 2017). Individual and collective decisions about seeking health services and what particular form of treatment to follow are influenced by a range of factors. They include long distances and poor roads to health centres or regional hospitals, the costs associated with procuring transport and accompanying family members to health facilities, the attitude of health workers, the availability of medication and perceived efficacy of treatments offered (Zwi et al. 2009). The decision to consult a traditional or indeed a religious faith-based healer over a formal health worker is further motivated by considerations of the perceived underlying cause of illness, familiarity and trust (Edmonds et al. 2005; Graves 2003; Kakuma et al. 2015; Palmer et al. 2017; Rodger and Steel 2016).7 Whilst the treatment and/or eventual recovery of a patient may be enabled by either clinical or traditional means, the perceived causes and consequences of illness are greatly shaped by cultural attitudes and expectations, and healing often requires not only physical but also spiritual attention. For many East Timorese, notions of health and wellbeing are based on specific ontological and cosmological assumptions about the person in society (Martins et al. 2008; McWilliam 2008; Palmer et al. 2017; Trindade 2015). Consequently, diseases, disorders or accidents affecting the ‘body-self ’, be they natural or ‘supernatural’ in origin, are related to transgressions against the ‘body-social’ (see Hoskins 1996; Scheper-Hughes and Lock 1987). There are many different local idioms used to describe mental illness in the various languages and dialects of Timor-Leste. Rodger and Steel (2016: 8) identify the commonly used Tetun terms, including (1) bulak – a generic term which is often used in a derogatory 164

Healthcare system in Timor-Leste

manner; (2) pontu – also a general term often used to describe individuals who behave or speak in an erratic, absurd or non-sensical manner, also associated with senility or dementia; (3) hanoin barak – ‘thinking too much’ (see below) associated with stress but sometimes also used in conjunction with bulak; (4) bilan – used to describe persons in a confused state or ‘empty mind’, also used to denote persons with intellectual disability; and (5) fulan ­lotuk – literally meaning ‘slim moon’ and associated with causal explanations for intermitting disorders that coincide with the late waning/early waxing of the moon (Silove et al. 2008; see also Graves 2003). Many people recognise that mental disorders may have natural, biological or ­physical causes;8 the result of physical trauma to the head, a consequence of malaria or genetic ­inheritance (Graves 2003). Local explanations also take into account social causes such as poverty, exclusion or general trauma from the experience of war and violence, including domestic violence (Graves 2003; Rodger and Steel 2016; Sakti 2013; Toome 2013). ­Disorders in Western clinical terms that are considered non-psychotic, such as depression, anxiety and ­post-traumatic stress disorder, are usually linked to the notion of ‘thinking too much’ (­ Tetun: hanoin barak) or ‘fright’ (Tetun: hakfodak), brought about by broken, fragmented or blocked social and spiritual relations which can produce feelings of ‘sorrow’ (Tetun: laran ­moras), ­a nger (Tetun: laran hirus) or nausea (Tetun: laran sae or laran beik) (Rodger and Steel 2016; Sakti 2013). Unusual behaviours associated with psychotic mental disorders or ­d isability, such as an inability to control one’s body, unusual speech patterns, violent out-bursts or even prolonged silence, on the other hand, are more commonly (but not exclusively) thought to have ‘supernatural’ origins (Rodger and Steel 2016). ‘Supernatural’ causes of illness can be ambiguous or malevolent and may be attributed to witches (Tetun: buan), non-human entities that enliven the natural world (Tetun: rai na’in), ancestral animal species (Waima’a: dai, Tetun: malae) or ghosts (Tetun: matebian) (Barnes 2017; Hicks 2004; Palmer 2015). From a more Christianised perspective, ‘supernatural’ causes are linked to ‘demons’ and other manifestations of evil. Witches stand out as being essentially anti-social, they enter one’s dreams, enter bodies, cast spells (Tetun: fekit) or entice others to harm often using some organic substance belonging to the victim (nail, hair, blood etc.) (Hicks 2004). The action of witches is seldom considered to be the direct cause of illness but the result of broken or strained social relations. As experienced in other contexts, a witchcraft diagnosis is often fatalistic as it is not possible to establish relations with witches (cf. Strathern and Stewart 2010: 110–111). In such cases, people may consider treatment or cure of illness to be beyond the reach of introduced or ‘Western’ medicine, requiring the intervention of healers capable of mobilising ancestral spirits strong enough to counter the action of witches (Hicks 2004; Palmer et al. 2017). Illnesses attributed to the intervention of non-human ‘spirits’ or rai na’in; ancestral ­a nimals and ghosts, on the other hand, are associated with social and environmental transgressions. These can include entering sacred sites without performing the appropriate rituals, eating taboo foods, contravening marriage rules between lineage groups and houses, or cases of ‘bad death’ and outstanding burial rites (Barnes 2017; Bovensiepen 2015; Palmer 2015; Palmer et al. 2017). In all such cases, for illness to be treated successfully, it is believed that reciprocal relationships across the social, spiritual and ancestral realms must be properly addressed. Stigma is attached to certain behaviours associated with mental illness, including a fear of violence or being drawn into relationships affected by ‘supernatural’ causes of illness (Graves 2003; Palmer et al. 2017). Such attitudes and beliefs manifest themselves in several ways ranging from avoidance to physical violence or abuse and, in the absence of viable care 165

Susana Barnes et al.

alternatives, some people are shackled or otherwise restrained (UNMIT 2011).9 A recent study by Larke found that, in the case of mental health service providers in Timor-Leste, stigmatising attitudes and beliefs were more likely to be related to the conception of people with mental illness as a source of threat or violence (Larke and Bartik 2017). Rodgers and Steel (2016: 139–140), however, note that cultural explanations that attribute the cause of illness to external sources may play a role in reducing personal and social culpability, notions of lulik and rai na’in in particular, they suggest, are ‘inclusive idioms’, universally acknowledged as having the potential to impact on any member of society. Such socio-cultural characteristics, they argue, contribute to ongoing family support for relatives and increase probability of recovery. Individual, family and community attitudes and behaviours in relation to mental illness are influenced by culture, and healthcare providers, particularly those who are themselves immersed in the same culture, often appear to accommodate patient beliefs in custom as the underlying cause of illness (Zwi et al. 2009). As McWilliam (2008: 236) suggests, this sensitivity to the cultural realities of health practices across the country highlights the possibility of incorporating or translating clinical concepts and treatments into more ‘culturally familiar formats’. Greater attention to local explanatory models and expressions of distress may in fact help improve engagement with mental health services (Rodger and Steel 2016). Given the important role they play in identifying causes of mental illness and enabling patients and families to think about and frame the meaning of illness in both mundane and cosmological terms (Rodger and Steel 2016), the role of customary and religious faith-based healers needs to be acknowledged (Graves 2003).

Customary and religious healers and healing practices Across Timor-Leste, there exist a range of different types of ‘traditional’ or customary and religious faith-based healer and healing practices (Kakuma et al. 2015). These p­ ractices include customary approaches to healing generally associated with ancestral origin houses (uma lulik)10 and nature spirits, religious healing practices of both the Catholic and the Protestant traditions as well as syncretic indigenous derivatives thereof, Timorese-Chinese ­folk-medicine and Islamic healing traditions. In most language groups, a range of terms are used to describe customary healers who may be either male or female. In Tetun, these include liman urat (diviner), badaen liman (masseur, or also traditional midwife), kukun na’in (ritual specialist) and matan dook (diviner, soothsayer).11 At the origin house level, it is often the case that either the ritual elders of the house or the spokesperson for the house (Tetun: lia na’in: keeper of the words) takes on responsibility for the spiritual care and protection of their kin. ‘Specialist’ healers may or may not have kin relations with a patient. These healers draw their powers from a variety of sources, including their own ancestral house, nature or the divine. The healing gifts of these ‘specialists’ may be received as a hereditary gift, through dreams or acquired through life experience and practice. It is also common for those who are said to have been afflicted by an adverse spirit possession to become healers if they are able to overcome and control the cause of their affliction (cf. Hatala et al. 2015; Palmer et al. 2017; Rodger and Steel 2016). In relation to customary healers and practices, McWilliam (2008) notes that therapies for specific illnesses, including mental illness, form part of wider range of strategies and practices aimed at restoring individual health and establishing community wellbeing. Customary healers concern themselves with determining and resolving the social origins of illness and misfortune as much as addressing the physical symptoms. Different diagnostic techniques 166

Healthcare system in Timor-Leste

are linked to specific healers’ practice, including watching the patient, listening to their life history, divination, augury and prayer. Customary healers use a complex vocabulary for describing illness, symptoms and causes. They employ different therapies or treatments based on diagnosis including invocation; laying of hands, manual techniques including massage often with areca nut spittle (bua malus), animal sacrifice, candles and herbal medication.12 Often the therapeutic process focuses on repairing relations and repaying debts to ancestors, family, house and fertility-givers/fertility-takers, particularly through animal offerings and sacrifice (Kakuma et al. 2015). In more urban contexts, approaches to health and healing have also been shaped by the influence of Christianity and charismatic (and universalising) faith-healing practices common to both the Catholic and the Protestant traditions (Palmer et al. 2017). Individuals and families seeking assistance for themselves or mentally ill relatives may consult their parish priest and seek improvement through Church attendance and prayer, often this is done whilst at the same time consulting a customary healer (Graves 2003). Those who seek out charismatic healers, on the other hand, tend to draw on visiting foreign teachers who often express disdain or outright objection to engagement with customary healing practices ­( Wiyono 2001). They seek instead a break with ancestral religions and associated customary practices, radically refashioning newer traditions based on individualism and a direct spiritual relationship with God. Within the Catholic charismatic tradition, there is a distinction made between physical healing of the body, the inner healing of emotion and the deliverance from evil spirits (Csordas 1997). Physical illness arises from disease and accidents whilst spiritual or emotional illness is the result of personal sin, or less frequently demonic possession (Chesnut 2003; Csordas 1997). Emphasis in this type of religious healing is placed on the transformative rather than the restorative effects of healing, the ultimate aim of which is to realise the ‘sacred self ’, a sense of being ‘in Christ’ (Csordas 1997: 18).13 Healers in this context do not possess ‘powers of healing’ but rather are enabled to make interventions on the patient’s behalf through prayer, laying of hands or anointing. There also exist in Timor-Leste a range of more syncretic healing practices such as ­oratorio.14 Practitioners of oratorio use candlelight as part of divinatory practices, pray over ­patients and conduct separate private rituals (Palmer et al. 2017). Whilst these syncretic practices draw on certain Catholic rites and saints, they are in fact appropriating (drawing in) their symbolic powers and attributing new meaning to them (see Fidalgo Castro 2012). There is also a rich tradition of Chinese folk-medicine amongst the Chinese-Timorese and healers also operate within the Islamic community in Dili.15 Patients, health workers and bureaucrats within the formal health sector have raised concerns regarding the effectiveness of customary and religious healers and healing practices, suggesting that they provide short-term fixes but not long-term treatment or solutions. They argue that customary practices in particular can have a high financial cost to the family and their unregulated nature is perceived to be more vulnerable to harmful practices and abuse (Kakuma et al. 2015; see also Graves 2003). Amongst health workers it is also felt that interactions with the customary sector delay engagement with the formal health service, resulting in their patients’ condition being more severe when they arrive in the formal sector (Kakuma et al. 2015). Despite these criticisms, some mental health experts make the case that recourse to customary or religious healers may have positive impacts on patients insofar as healers act as an external locus of control, people who take on and confront the causes of illness head on, on behalf of the patient (Rodger and Steel 2016). Moreover, health workers also agree that in approaching customary and religious healers, patients and families demonstrate a desire to take responsibility for themselves and seek diagnosis/treatment. In doing so, they are also 167

Susana Barnes et al.

more likely to address any problematic relations within the family and others which may influence long-term health outcomes. Patient, families and health workers recognise that customary and religious healers and practices are often essential to ‘opening the path’ to healing processes of all kinds, including mental health disorders (Palmer et al. 2015a; see also Martins et al. 2008). However, this recognition is qualified. Health workers across both government and NGOs emphasise the need to make a clear distinction between clinical treatments and therapies and customary or religious faith-based forms of healing to ensure that patients and families can distinguish the basis of effective outcomes.16 They also call for the regulation of ‘informal’ healers and investigation into the efficacy of treatments they provide. Such attitudes, in particular amongst specialist mental health workers, are reflective of processes of professionalisation and bureaucratisation within the MoH and the formal health sector that serve to reinforce the social and cultural authority of clinical approaches to health. Yet, these differences need not be an obstacle to co-ordination and collaboration. Customary and religious healers are included in the National Mental Health Strategy’s referral system for mental health and considered an important partner in this regard. Mental health workers recognise the need to create pathways for communication and dialogue with the ‘informal’ sector to build up knowledge and understanding of customary and religious (faith-based) diagnostics, therapy and treatment in order to provide the best care options to those in need (Palmer et al. 2015b).

Integrated, accessible and culturally competent mental health care The National Mental Health Strategy 2011–2015 called for an integrated and comprehensive health system that embraces both ‘modern’ and ‘indigenous’ models of care (MoH 2010). Despite some of the challenges described above, co-ordination and collaboration of care across these two sectors can be complementary and could enable a more comprehensive, effective and efficient community-based set of services that better meet the needs of the population whilst respecting/protecting local customs. An effective mental healthcare system requires appropriate and timely mental health ­promotion, prevention, early detection, diagnosis, treatment, rehabilitation and social ­support (WHO 2010, 2013). Ideally, interventions should include professional training and community education for early detection, treatment that includes both pharmacological and non-pharmacological interventions such as psychoeducation and psychotherapy (e.g., behavioural activation, cognitive behaviour therapy, interpersonal therapy), and rehabilitation and social support to facilitate recovery and reintegration back home, at school, at work and in the community (Patel et al. 2007). Whilst the ability to provide such n ­ on-pharmacological services is desirable for many current mental health workers in Timor-Leste, most do not have such training and there is currently insufficient human resource capacity to provide such support. The shortage of mental health specialists or training opportunities is not specific to ­Timor-Leste. No nation has sufficient human resources to meet all of the mental healthcare needs of its citizens and most low- and middle-income countries face significant shortages (Kakuma et al. 2011; Scheffler 2011). Most countries will never have enough specialists and therefore strategies that effectively make the best use of specialists and trains/­mobilises other human resources, across sectors and systems (health and non-health, formal and ­informal, private sector, industry, community members) - known as task-shifting - are ­essential to ­develop adequate human resources to meet mental healthcare needs (Kakuma et al. 2011; Scheffler 2011). Whilst some of the more complex tasks require specialists such as psychiatrists, 168

Healthcare system in Timor-Leste

neurologists and psychologists, other tasks can be delivered by non-specialists. For instance, general physicians, nurses and community volunteer workers can be trained to detect, diagnose and treat common and less complex disorders such as mood and behavioural disorders whilst the specialists focus on diagnosis and treatment of more severe and complex cases. Similarly, community members, customary healers, religious faith-based healers, teachers and others can also be trained to detect and refer someone with a potential mental disorder to a clinic or hospital, to use a screening tool, to provide basic counselling, to follow up and ensure patients are taking their medication properly and practicing other recovery regimes such as self-monitoring. Currently, there are no formal mechanisms for collaboration between health workers, mental health specialists and customary or religious faith-based healers (Hawkins 2010), at the day-to-day level. Usually, these relationships are facilitated and fostered through family ties and extended networks of kin. For example, mental health caseworkers working together with health staff in rural health centres in Venilale sub-district have engaged with local customary healers, raising awareness of mental illness and encouraging them to refer patients to the local health post. Mental health case workers argue that local healers command substantial authority within the community and patients are more likely to comply with medical treatments and therapies if they are supported and reinforced by healers (Palmer et al. 2015b; see also Graves 2003). Further research is required to document and verify these claims; however, experiences from the area of maternal reproductive health suggest that dialogue between clinical and non-clinical approaches have the potential for providing better outcomes for patients and their families. For example, traditional birth attendants were introduced into the national health system as ‘family health promoters’ to perform a range of tasks including outreach and case finding, health and patient education, referrals, home visits and care management. Through this collaboration, traditional birth attendants significantly improved their knowledge, attitude and behaviour, and their capacity to provide appropriate advice for antenatal care. Furthermore, this new model of care has increased access to reproductive health services particular for women in rural communities and reduced maternal mortality rates (Sarmento 2014). Moving beyond the practical and pragmatic advantages of increased co-ordination and collaboration between customary and religious faith-based healers and the formal health ­sector, paying closer attention to the way culture and customs shape understandings of ­d isease and illness, healing and curing can only enhance current mental health programme planning, development and implementation (see Guarnaccia and Rodriguez 1996; ­Incayawar et  al. 2009; NPY WCAC 2013). These initiatives could include culturally sensitive ­approaches to mental health promotion, training and programming including the use of appropriate ­language and terminology in education programmes, incorporating local cultural categories of illness and an understanding of the cultural resources available to people in distress within training programmes, and the documentation and development of guidelines to interpreting culturally influenced expressions and understandings of mental illness (Graves 2003; Rodger and Steel 2016; Silove et al. 2008). It is likely that in the future, patients and families in Timor-Leste will continue to draw on multiple health systems to seek help with recovery or cure from mental illness. Studies suggest that the availability of a variety of treatment options may be beneficial to patients in the long-run (Halliburton 2009; see also Rodger and Steel 2016). As such, initiatives that foster respectful and considerate dialogue, build trust and share knowledge between health systems can only be of benefit to patients and their families. The MoH with the support of WHO organised a forum in July 2015 and, in collaboration with the University of 169

Susana Barnes et al.

Melbourne, brought together over 60 government, international, academic and community stakeholders, including traditional healers. The forum aimed to stimulate dialogue on mental health policy and practice in Timor-Leste and to consider how inter-sectoral partnerships might be realised within an integrated system of care. An enactment by customary healers of contemporary customary practices and roleplays based on their interactions with local and district mental health nurses was a highlight of the forum and produced lively discussion regarding capacity building, research needs and policy changes required to develop an integrated approach to mental health care in Timor-Leste. The demonstrated openness and desire to engage in dialogue between the formal and informal sector suggests that TimorLeste is in an ideal position to take the lead on research and development in this area.

Acknowledgements The authors wish to thank Dr Herculano Seixas, Dr Helder Juvinal, Mr Luis da Cunha, Mr Francisco Almeida and Mr Egas da Silva from the Ministry of Health of Timor-Leste; Dr  Rajesh Pandav and Mr Leoneto Soares Pinto from the World Health Organisation Timor-Leste Country Office for their guidance and support; and Mr Mateus da Costa, Mr Mateus Belo and Mr Mariano Dionesio for sharing their knowledge and expertise on customary healing practices.

Notes 1 All the authors were involved to varying degrees in assisting the MoH in the development of a draft National Mental Health Strategy 2016–2020. 2 For logistical reasons, no participants from the Special Economic Zone of Oecussi were able to take part in the study. 3 This research was conducted using an existing stigma measurement tool, the Mental Illness ­Clinician’s Attitude Scale – Version 4 (Gabbidon et al. 2013), translated and adapted to suit the ­Timorese context through the guidance of a six-person panel of senior figures within the ­Timorese Mental Health services. Along with additional demographic data, two additional ­multiple-response questions were also included that explored participants’ beliefs about the causes of mental illness and their preferred treatment approach. 4 Prior to independence, there were no state-sponsored mental health services available in the ­country. In the aftermath of the violent withdrawal of the Indonesian military-administrative ­apparatus following the UN-sponsored ballot in August 1999, an organisation called ­Psychosocial Recovery and Development in East Timor (PRADET) was established with funding from ­Australian government funding. Under the auspices of PRADET, the first Timorese nurses and midwives received mental health training and began to provide treatment of severe mental disorders to people in the capital city Dili. In 2002, this programme formed the basis for the East Timor National Mental Health Project (ETNMHP) which was completely transferred to the MoH in 2005. In 2008, mental health services became a unit under the directorate for ­‘non-communicable diseases’ (Hawkins and Tilman 2011), now called the Department of Non-Communicable D ­ iseases and Mental Health. The conditions we describe here reflect the situation in late 2016, early 2017. 5 Training was initially provided through PRADET and ETNMHP in 2004. Since then, ad hoc training has been provided by the MoH and the Instituto Nacional de Saude, but this focuses mainly on protocols surrounding the provision of medication (pers. comm. Herculano Seixas). 6 An exception to this case is the work of Rodger and Steel that explores the relationship between culture, trauma, dissociation and brief–chronic psychotic states (see Rodger and Steel 2016). Research on family system and community care models was identified as a priority research area in the 2011–2015 Mental Health Strategic Plan. 7 For example, there is a reluctance to seek hospital care due not only to a fear of dying but also linked to experiences of difficulty in recovering bodies of deceased and to cultural funerary practices and beliefs (Edmonds et al. 2005).

170

Healthcare system in Timor-Leste 8 Larke and Bartik (2017) found amongst health service providers attributions to the origins of mental illness were as follows: psychological = 34.3%; biological = 28.8%; environmental = 25.8%; spiritual = 11.1%. 9 Here we refer in particular to elements of interpersonal stigma: knowledge, attitudes and behaviours. 10 Across Timor-Leste social life is organised around origin groups linked to particular ancestral origin house (Tetun: uma lulik) and local spirit ecologies which embed these in intimate, intergenerational social, political and economic relationships with their extended consanguineal and affinal kin. Links between these lineages and with the surrounding environment are embedded in a life world of obligation and reciprocity built around socio-cosmic dualisms such as male/female, fertility-giver/fertility-taker, younger sibling/older sibling, indigene/newcomer, political authority/ritual authority, as well as a suite of botanical metaphors such as trunk/tips – the harmonious (or conflictual) relations between which ensure the ‘flow of life’ (Palmer 2015). 11 Of these terms, Kakuma et al. (2015) found that matan dook solicited most negative reactions with some customary healers themselves using this term to describe charlatans. As matan dook practices will usually involve divination through animal sacrifice, these negative reactions are often also attributable to the embarrassment felt at being linked to such ‘primitive’ and non-Christian ways. 12 The knowledge of herbal medication is not exclusive to healers but may be cultivated in home gardens or sourced from forests. Collins et al. have documented over 40 distinct medical plants in Fataluku and Idate-speaking area (see Collins 2005; Collins et al. 2007). 13 In Pentecostal tradition, this transformation is commonly described as being ‘born again in Christ’. 14 The term oratorio is derived from the Portuguese word meaning ‘oratory’, place of prayer. 15 Chinese folk-medicine and healing practices within the Islamic community were beyond the scope of the research presented here. 16 Larke and Bartik (2017) found that amongst the Timorese mental health service providers surveyed, only 11.1% attributed the origins of mental illness to spiritual causes. Correspondingly, only 20% of respondents selected a treatment model based on a spiritual approach (either conducted through a traditional or Church-based healer) as representing what they considered to be the most efficacious.

References Barnes, S. (2011) ‘Origins, Precedence and Social Order in the Domain of Ina Ama Beli Darlari’, In Land and Life in Timor-Leste Ethnographic Essays, A. McWilliam and E.G. Traube (eds), pp. 23–46, Canberra: ANU E-Press. Barnes, S. (2013) Gift Giving and Gift Obligations: Strategies of Incorporation and Accommodation in the Customary Domain, Paper presented at the European Southeast Asian Studies Association Conference, 2–5 July, Lisbon. Barnes, S. (2017) Customary Renewal and the Pursuit of Power and Prosperity in Post-Occupation East Timor: A Case Study from Babulo, Uato-Lari, Unpublished PhD thesis, Melbourne: Monash University. Bovensiepen, J. (2015) The Land of Gold: Cultural Revival and Post-Conflict Reconstruction in Independent Timor-Leste, Ithaca, NY: Southeast Asia Program Publications (SEAP) Cornell University Press. Chesnut, R.A. (2003) ‘A Preferential Option for the Spirit: The Catholic Charismatic Renewal in Latin America’s New Religious Economy’, Latin American Politics and Society, 45: 55–85. Collins, S. (2005) The ethnobotany of East Timor, Unpublished MSc Thesis, Ottowa: University of Ottowa. Collins, S., X. Martins, A. Mitchell, A. Teshome and T. Arnason (2007) ‘Fataluku Medicinal Ethnobotany and the East Timorese Military Resistance’, Journal of Ethnobiology and Ethnomedicine, 3: 5. Csordas, T.J. (1997) The Sacred Self: A Cultural Phenomenology of Charismatic Healing, Berkeley: University of California Press. Edmonds, A., R.P.D. Jesus, M. Lindelow and I. Morris. (2005) Health Service Delivery and Utilization in Timor-Leste: A Qualitative Study, Dili: World Bank. Fidalgo Castro, A. (2012) ‘A Religião em Timor-Leste a Partir de Uma Perspectiva ­Histórico-Antropológica’, In Léxico Fataluco-Português, A. Fidalgo Castro and E. Legaspi Bouza (eds), pp. 79–118, Dili: Salesianos Dom Bosco Timor-Leste. Gabbidon, J., S. Clement, A. van Nieuwenhuizen, A. Kassam, E. Brohan, I. Norman and G. Thornicroft. (2013) ‘Mental Illness: Clinicians’ Attitudes (MICA) Scale—Psychometric Properties of a Version for Healthcare Students and Professionals’, Psychiatry Research, 206: 81–87.

171

Susana Barnes et al. Graves, J. (2003) Knowledge, Attitudes and Responses to Mental Health, East Timor National Mental Health Project, Dili: Ministry of Health. Guarnaccia, P.J. and O. Rodriguez. (1996) ‘Concepts of Culture and their Role in the Development of Culturally Competent Mental Health Services’, Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences, 18: 419–443. Halliburton, M. (2009) Mudpacks and Prozac: Experiencing Ayurvedic, Biomedical and Religious Healing, Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Hatala, A.R., J.B. Waldram and T. Caal. (2015) ‘Narrative Structures of Maya Mental Disorders’, Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry, 39: 449–486. Hawkins, Z. (2010) ‘A Decade of Mental Health Services in Timor-Leste’, International Psychiatry, 7: 11–13. Hawkins, Z. and T. Tilman. (2011) ‘“The Family is the Clinic, the Community is the Hospital”: Community Mental Health in Timor-Leste’, Australasian Psychiatry, 19: S95–S97. Hicks, D. (2004) Tetum Ghosts and Kin: Fertility and Gender in East Timor, Long Grove, ILL: Waveland Press. Hoskins, J. (1996) ‘From Diagnosis to Performance: Medical Practice and the Politics of Exchange in Kodi, West Sumba’, In The Performance of Healing, C. Laderman and M. Roseman (eds), pp. 271–290, New York: Routledge. Incayawar, M., R. Wintrob, L. Bouchard and G. Bartocci. (2009) Psychiatrists and Traditional Healers: Unwitting Partners in Global Mental Health, Singapore: John Wiley and Sons. Kakuma, R., H. Minas, N. van Ginneken, M.R. Dal Poz, K. Desiraju, J.E. Morris, S. Saxena and R.M. Scheffler. (2011) ‘Human Resources for Mental Health Care: Current Situation and Strategies for Action’, The Lancet, 378: 1654–1663. Kakuma, R., S. Barnes, H. Seixas and L. Palmer. (2015) ‘Towards an Integrated and Accessible ­Mental Health Care System in Timor-Leste’, In Timor-Leste: The Local, the Regional and the Global, S. Smith, N.C. Mendes, A.D. Silva, A.X.D. Costa, C. Fernandes and M. Leach (eds), pp. 272–278, Dili: Swinburne University Press. Kleinman, A. (1980) Patients and Healers in the Context of Culture: An Exploration of the Borderland between Anthropology, Medicine and Psychiatry, Berkeley: University of California Press. Larke, B. and W. Bartik. (2017) Stigma, Faith and Mental Illness: Investigating Service Deliverers’ Attitudes in Timor-Leste, Paper presented at Intersections of Knowledge Postgraduate Conference, 17–18 January, Armidale: University of New England. Loch, A. (2007) House, Mobile Phone and Halleluja: Psychosocial Reconstruction in Timor-Leste. An ­Ethno-Psychological Study on Post-Conflict Dynamics and Tensions in the Intersection of Identity, Trauma, Culture and Development, Frankfurt/London: IKO. Martins, N., J. Grace and P. Kelly. (2008) ‘An Ethnographic Study of Barriers to and Enabling Factors for Tuberculosis Treatment Adherence in Timor-Leste’, The International Journal of Tuberculosis and Lung Disease, 12: 532–537. McWilliam, A. (2008) ‘Fataluku Healing and Cultural Resilience in East Timor’, Ethnos, 73: 217–240. MoH (Ministry of Health). (2010) National Mental Health Strategy 2011–2015 for a Mentally Healthy Timor-Leste, Dili: Ministry of Health. NPY WCAC (Ngaanyatharra Pitjantjatjarra Yankunytja Women’s Council Aboriginal Corporation). (2013) Traditional Healers of Central Australia: Ngangkari, Broome: Magabala Books. Palmer, L. (2007) ‘Developing Timor-Leste: Recognising the Role of Custom and Tradition’, In ­E xploring the Tensions of Nation Building in Timor-Leste, L. Palmer, S. Niner and L. Kent (eds), pp. 7–8, Proceedings from a Forum, 15 September 2006, SSEE Research Paper No. 1, ­Melbourne: ­University of Melbourne, Available at http://profiles.arts.monash.edu.au/sara-niner/ files/2012/03/2007-­Tensions-Nation-Building-Proceedings.pdf (accessed 1 December 2017). Palmer, L. (2010) ‘Enlivening Development: Water Management in PostConflict Baucau City, ­Timor-Leste’, Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 31: 357–370. Palmer, L. (2015) Water Politics and Spiritual Ecology: Custom, Environmental Governance and Development, London and New York: Routledge. Palmer, L., R. Kakuma and S. Barnes. (2015a) Opening the Paths to Healing: Approaches to Mental Health in Timor-Leste, Paper presented at the Australian Anthropological Society Conference, 1–4 December, Melbourne: University of Melbourne. Palmer, L., S. Barnes, R. Kakuma and H. Seixas. (2015b) Towards an Integrated Mental Health Strategy in Timor-Leste: Preliminary Findings, Paper presented at Timor-Leste Mental Health Forum, Dili: Ministry of Health.

172

Healthcare system in Timor-Leste Palmer, L, Kakuma R and Barnes, S, 2017, Opening the paths to healing: approaches to mental health in Timor Leste, Third World Thematics, Received 18 Sep 2016, Accepted 26 May 2017, Published online: 12 Jun 2017. Patel, V., R. Araya, S. Chatterjee, D. Chisholm, A. Cohen, M. de Silva, C. Hosman, H. McGuire, G. Rojas and M. van Ommeren. (2007) ‘Treatment and Prevention of Mental Disorders in ­Low-Income and Middle-Income Countries’, The Lancet, 370: 991–1005. Rodger, J. and Z. Steel. (2016) Between Trauma and the Sacred: The Cultural Shaping of Remitting-Relapsing Psychosis in Post-Conflict Timor-Leste, Cham, Switzerland: Springer. Sakti, V.K. (2013) ‘“Thinking Too Much”: Tracing Local Patterns of Emotional Distress after Mass Violence in Timor-Leste’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 14: 438–454. Sarmento, D.R. (2014) ‘Traditional Birth Attendance (TBA) in a Health System: What Are the Roles, Benefits and Challenges? A Case Study of Incorporated TBA in Timor-Leste’, Asia Pacific Family Medicine, 13: 12. Scheffler, R.M. (2011) Human Resources for Mental Health: Workforce Shortages in Low-and Middle-Income Countries, Human Resources for Helath Observer, Issue No. 8, Geneva: World Health Organization, Available at http://apps.who.int/iris/bitstream/10665/44508/1/9789241501019_eng.pdf (accessed 1 December 2017). Scheper-Hughes, N. and M.M. Lock. (1987) ‘The Mindful Body: A Prolegomenon to Future Work in Medical Anthropology’, Medical Anthropology Quarterly, 1: 6–41. Silove, D., C.R. Bateman, R.T. Brooks, C.A. Fonseca, Z. Steel, J. Rodger, I. Soosay, G. Fox, V. Patel and A. Bauman. (2008) ‘Estimating Clinically Relevant Mental Disorders in Rural and an Urban Setting in Postconflict Timor-Leste’, Archives of General Psychiatry, 65: 1205–1212. Strathern, A. and P.J. Stewart. (2010) Curing and Healing: Medical Anthropology in Global Perspective, Durham, NC: Carolina Academic Press. Thornicroft, G. and M. Tansella. (2009) Better Mental Health Care, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Toome, E. (2013) ‘All in the Mind? The Pathologization of Trauma in Timor-Leste’, In Proceedings of People and the Planet 2013: Transforming the Future, P. James, C. Hudson, S. Carroll-Bell and A. Taing (eds), pp. 1–11, Melbourne: Global Cities Research Institute, Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (RMIT). Trindade, J. (2015) ‘Relational Dimensions within Timor-Leste Customary Society’, In Fifth TimorLeste Studies Association Conference, H. Loney, A.B. da Silva, A. da Costa Ximenes and N. Canas Mendes (eds), pp. 239–243, Dili: Swinburne Press. UNMIT (United Nations Mission in Timor-Leste). (2011) Report on the Rights of Persons with ­D isabilities in Timor-Leste, Dili: Office of United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, Available at https://unmit.unmissions.org/sites/default/files/final_unhr_report_2011_eng_for_ web_.pdf ­(accessed 1 December 2017). Wiyono, G. (2001) ‘Timor Revival: A Historical Study of the Great Twentieth-Century Revival in Indonesia’, Asian Journal of Pentecostal Studies, 4: 269–293. WHO (World Health Organization). (2010) Community Based Rehabilitation Guidelines, Geneva: World Health Organization, Available at www.who.int/disabilities/cbr/guidelines/en/ (accessed 1 ­December 2017). WHO (World Health Organization). (2013) Mental Health Action Plan 2013–2020, Geneva: World Health Organization, Available at www.who.int/mental_health/action_plan_2013/en/ (accessed 1 December 2017). Zwi, A.B., I. Blignault, D. Glazebrook, V. Correia, C.R. Bateman Steel, E. Ferreira and B.M. Pinto. (2009) Timor-Leste Health Care Seeking Behaviours Study. Sydney: University of New South Wales.

173

13 Internal displacement in Timor-Leste Pyone Myat Thu

Introduction Civil strife, successive foreign occupation, and the prolonged struggle for national independence have generated multiple waves of population displacement in Timor-Leste. This chapter examines the long-term impacts of internal displacement during the Indonesian occupation of Timor-Leste, which continues to influence contemporary access to land and livelihood practices. Although displacement was initially a product of war and conflict, the Indonesian military regime’s efforts to secure the territory and push its development and nation-building agendas marks the most significant waves of population displacement in Timor-Leste’s colonial history. Nearly two decades after restoring national independence, tens of thousands of Timorese remain in the places where they settled informally or were forcibly resettled under the directives of the Indonesian security forces. In a country where land continues to underpin multiple dimensions in people’s lives, displacement has brought varying challenges in contemporary times in terms of pursuing livelihoods, securing rights over land and property, and engaging in cultural practices. Populations forced to flee their usual place of residence due to conflict, war, and natural disasters, or the impact of large-scale development projects, are broadly described as ‘displaced people’. Globally, there are 65 million conflict-driven, internally displaced people (IDPs), and 11% are located in the Asia-Pacific region (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees [UNHCR] 2016). Accurate numbers of IDPs are difficult to estimate, particularly in circumstances where the state is complicit in the violent processes that force people to flee their homes, making IDPs less visible and accessible to international humanitarian actors. Compared to refugees, the plight of IDPs is often not well documented in mass media or academic research, nor adequately addressed by international and national regulatory frameworks on the premise that they remain within national boundaries. Displaced populations are commonly portrayed as ‘vulnerable’ and ‘powerless’ in the media, literature, and by international observers. In the pursuit of social justice, rights-based approaches to research, advocacy, and humanitarian assistance in displacement situations sometimes have the adverse effect of rendering displaced people as ‘aid-dependent’ and ‘victims’. Cast as an homogenous mass (Malkki 1995), the strategies that displaced people employ to transcend the complexities associated with being uprooted from one’s place of origin and losing access 174

Internal displacement

to land and property, along with overcoming their emotional, psychological, and physical wounds, are inevitably buried beneath the prevailing narratives of passivity and victimhood (Hartnack 2009). In response, social scientists have sought to illuminate the ways displaced people actively mitigate livelihood risks and environmental stressors through place-based research. Empirical studies of displacement reveal that displaced people’s livelihood trajectories and their subjectivities and aspirations are transformed through the interplay of colonial legacies, contemporary political and economic structures, and local agro-ecologies and sociality ­( Elmhirst 2012; Stepputat 1999). Other studies highlight the importance of social capital and even translocal and transnational relations for displaced people as they search for durable solutions within contexts that often work against securing better livelihood opportunities, repatriation, or resettlement elsewhere (Van Hear 2006; Willems 2003). Forced displacement is inextricably linked to dispossession of land and property. In the case of Timor-Leste, kin and marriage relations have provided important channels for displaced people to gain access to land, shelter, and other basic needs during and after conflict (Fitzpatrick and Barnes 2010). Amongst former Timorese refugees who have repatriated in recent years, the support of kin and local village leaders has been key to reintegrating into their origin communities and regaining their citizen-identities (Thu 2015). Maintaining social relations across national boundaries has been equally crucial for those in the Timorese refugee diaspora who have chosen not to return, as a means to uphold claims over land and property in their homelands (Wise 2006, Damaledo this volume). This chapter begins with an historical account of internal displacement during the Indonesian invasion period as experienced by two rural communities. Local experiences of displacement are then explored by drawing on the perspectives and lived experiences of those directly affected. The chapter illustrates how contemporary livelihoods and land and property relations in rural Timor-Leste are entangled with local histories of colonialism, warfare, and forced migration with kinship ties often playing a crucial mediating role. Local experiences in addressing the challenges of historical displacement are therefore instructive, particularly in the current climate of the Timor-Leste state undertaking large-scale infrastructure development to drive national economic growth. In the absence of robust formal land laws, a new wave of ‘development-induced’ displacement is already taking place in Dili, Suai, and Oecusse, which has resulted in evictions of long-standing residents from the houses and lands they claim by right, increasing the disruption to household livelihoods, and further complicating land relations.

The Indonesian occupation: displacement, security, and development In the wake of the violent Indonesian invasion of Timor-Leste in December 1975, approximately 4,572 refugees fled to Australia, and equally large numbers to Portugal, Mozambique, and Macau (Wise 2006). Up to half of a total population of 670,000 East Timorese were reported to be internally displaced, with the majority seeking refuge in the mountains (CAVR 2005a). A large number of people fled into the hills earlier during the internal civil war in 1974, heeding advice from Fretilin (the nationalist political party) to hide from the imminent Indonesian invasion. From 1977 to 1979, the onslaught of the invading forces’ ‘encirclement and annihilation’ campaign, with its coordinated attacks from the air, sea, and land, was compounded by diminishing food supplies and widespread illness and civilian death. Eventually under the sustained pressure and at the general instruction of Fretilin, thousands of Timorese people 175

Pyone Myat Thu

surrendered from their places of refuge (Budiardjo and Liem 1984). Local accounts ­indicate that the Timorese populations were directed by the Indonesian military into detention camps in local towns and settlements. Although internal displacement was largely localised within the broader sub-districts and districts of natal settlements, the displaced populations were relocated a number of times and period of displacement lasted from less than a month to decades depending on the considered degree of community integration under Indonesian authority (CAVR 2005b). The Indonesian military sought to contain population settlements, concerned that the ­Timorese civilians would continue to maintain contacts and support for Fretilin and its armed wing Falintil, held up in their bases in the mountains. Many highland communities could not return to their origin settlements for many years and to dissuade people from doing so, Indonesian troops with support of local Timorese militias destroyed houses and remaining food crops and livestock. Despite humanitarian relief from the International Red Cross and the Church in some camps, famine and malnutrition peaked in the detention camps during 1980–1981 and the death toll amongst detainees was severe. Only when internal security was established were camp residents permitted to return to their former homes. Although some camps were closed down, Indonesian authorities reconfigured a large proportion into administrative villages and hamlets (sub-village) in an effort to bring socio-economic development to the annexed territory. In the resettlement sites, basic public infrastructure and services were provided and the relative accessibility and connectivity of these new settlements persuaded many displaced people to remain instead of returning to their natal settlements which, in most cases, had been largely destroyed. Throughout 24 years of Indonesian occupation, physical movement in the province of Timor Timur (as Timor-Leste was known) was strictly monitored by the Indonesian military and the military’s civilian forces. East Timorese were not permitted to travel long distances without formal permission in an attempt to sever ties between civilians and resistance fighters. Individuals, families, and communities suspected of participating in clandestine networks were sometimes captured, tortured, and imprisoned. The Indonesian authorities also implemented a national transmigration scheme in the territory by resettling landless poor farmers from the overcrowded islands of Java and Bali. Scholars argue that the transmigration scheme opened up new agricultural frontiers, but it also served the underlying goal of integrating the East Timorese into the Indonesian nation (Taylor 1999). In the lead up to, and following, the referendum on national independence in August 1999, another episode of mass displacement ensued with an estimated 20,000 East Timorese forcibly deported to West Timor. Over one thousand people died in this turmoil, and some 400,000 became internally displaced for varying periods of time (CAVR 2005a). An estimated 90% of property and infrastructure in the territory was damaged by the departing Indonesian armed forces and pro-Indonesia local militias (CAVR 2005a). Compared to the episode of displacement during the invasion years, this latter episode was less disruptive. The majority of Timorese, fearing repercussions from the vote for national independence, sought refuge in the surrounding hills and forests for several weeks and up to several months following the results of the referendum.

Displacement and resettlement in Simpang Tiga and Mulia In the southern interior of the territory, resident populations that surrendered in the ­Cablaki Mountains between 1977 and 1978 were initially housed in the main town of Samé, before being relocated further south to the lowland river plains to ease overcrowding. One settlement 176

Internal displacement

on the lowland plains became known as Simpang Tiga. Residents recounted the burning of their origin settlements by the invading forces and local militias, forcing them to seek refuge in the mountains. The depletion of food supplies, illnesses, and death finally drove them out of hiding. Similarly in 1978 and 1979, local residents in the eastern interior who emerged from the Matebian Mountains were first concentrated close to the town centre in Quelicai, before they were forcibly relocated into detention camps on the lowlands. A camp on the northern coastal plain of Laga later became an Indonesian military security check point and an official resettlement village named Mulia.

Simpang Tiga Displaced people typically face distinct challenges in rebuilding livelihoods as they have lost family members and household assets and have experienced suffering and trauma in the unfavourable social, political, and legal contexts that inevitably work against them ­( Jacobsen 2014). The strategies developed to address a multitude of livelihood challenges by those resettled in Simpang Tiga and Mulia serve as important examples of human agency. The settlement patterns in the two resettlement sites showed clustering in family and kinship groups, with a re-emplacing of kin relations in new geographical spaces. Nonetheless, their new livelihoods were very much shaped by place-based histories, kin and marital relations, and agro-ecological conditions. Simpang Tiga is a resettlement site within the administrative boundaries of Daisua ­v illage. Daisua currently comprises five hamlets, Riatu, Lesuai, Lesulau, Daisua, and Loti, and ­Simpang Tiga is situated in the customary land boundaries of Loti hamlet. The majority of settlers in Simpang Tiga were relocated from the three highland hamlets of Riatu, Lesuai, and Lesulau, as well as from a neighbouring village of Babulu. Hence, in this case d­ isplacement was relatively localised, with setters and customary landowners sharing pre-existing ­marriage and political affiliations. This fact enabled settlers to gain land access from their hosts on ­favourable terms. The rebuilding of new livelihoods, however, was constrained by local e­ cological conditions, mainly the risk of losing cropping land on the alluvial plains due to perennial flooding of the Ai-Asa River. To overcome this predicament, a number of settlers cleared garden land and raise cattle in the adjacent village of Foho Ailicu. They resided near their gardens whilst retaining their dwelling in Simpang Tiga which they returned to occasionally in order to access the local marketplace. In other cases, settlers left Simpang Tiga to resettle informally in Foho Ailicu on their own initiative – once again relying on long-standing social and familial ties with landowners to secure land for shelter and cultivation. Land access in Simpang Tiga and Foho Ailicu is firmly embedded in a mythically inscribed landscape guided by pre-established marriage ties and indigenous political alliance between settlers and landowners. According to oral histories, the original landowners gifted land in present-day Foho Ailicu to early settlers from the western districts around the mid-nineteenth century. It is believed the early settlers were then incorporated into the local political domain after their leader symbolically ‘exchanged names’ (T: troka naran) that was sealed in marriage with the ruler of the landowning groups. Later land disputes and communal conflict erupted amongst local residents and new settlers, prompting the leaders to put in place a customary peacemaking contract (T: juramentu) which sanctioned the land in Foho Ailicu as ‘sacred land’ (T: rai lulik) – a communal resource to be shared between the landowners and settlers. The contemporary definition of rights of access to the spiritually potent land in Foho Ailicu continues to be guided by the protocols of the ancestral peace contract. Foremost in this agreement is the convention that land can be cultivated for an extended period 177

Pyone Myat Thu

by individuals and families belonging to the respective lineages who participated in the original peacemaking agreement. Their rights of access and use are usually represented by male heads of household. Land on which trees are planted is available for cultivation by other individuals and reverts to communal land when cropping ceases. However, perennial trees, such as coconut, teak, mango, and betel nut, may be planted and thereafter belong to the cultivator(s) and their descendants. The ‘sacred land’ was established to prevent further disputes amongst the resident populations and is maintained to the present time. By convention, any disputes over this area land must be resolved openly (T: kolia iha oin) between the parties in conflict with reference to the ancestral peace contract. Violence is forbidden, and failure to show mutual respect is believed to invoke physical and social retribution from ancestor spirits.

Mulia By contrast, settlers in Mulia had no pre-established social ties with customary landowners, which consequently limited their rights over land. Residents in Mulia originated from the villages of Waitame, Gurusa, Abafala, and Afasa in the distant eastern highlands of Quelicai sub-district. To gain a means of living, settlers worked as sharecroppers in the rice paddies of customary landowners. Sharecropping arrangements were based on customary land–labour exchange practices where landowners usually provided seed and access to paddy fields in exchange for sharecroppers’ labour. The rice crop was divided equally between the landowners and the sharecroppers. Casual labourers were also typically paid via in-kind arrangements. Continued access to land was dependent on sharecroppers maintaining annual yields and contributing additionally to the end of season, rice harvest feasts (Thu 2012). These labour and land exchange arrangements continued between settlers and landowners for many years, but tensions over the occupied resettlement area of Mulia persisted and inter-village social ties remained weak over the 30 years of resettlement history. At the end of occupation, a number of settler families in Mulia elected to return permanently to their ancestral settlements where they reclaimed family land and fruit groves and were re-united with their extended kin networks. Another group of settlers developed a pattern of translocal livelihoods by strategically splitting family members between the ancestral settlement in Quelicai and the ‘new’ settlement in Mulia to take advantage of available resources and the agro-ecological benefits of each place. For example, the older generations in some households returned permanently to Quelicai sub-district to reside in their birthplace and take responsibility for maintaining the sacred lineage ritual houses (T: Uma lulik). Younger generations worked as sharecroppers during the rice-growing months on the coast and returned to the mountains to cultivate family gardens after the rice harvest. Younger children and adolescents typically remained in Mulia in the care of parents and relatives to attend school or to work in Baucau town. Mulia settlers furthermore diversified their livelihood resources in order to operate outside customary and state regulations governing land and natural resources. They supplemented their incomes by setting up roadside food stalls, quarrying rocks from surrounding hills and dry riverbeds, and cutting and trading timber with neighbouring Indonesian islands. These innovative livelihood strategies challenge the great amount of media and literature on displacement which emphasises victimhood and vulnerability, but they fall short of acknowledging the long-term everyday place-based negotiations of land access that are contingent on local ecology as much as social relationships with customary hosts, and importantly, cultural ties to origin places. 178

Internal displacement

A national response to internal displacement Following the departure of the Indonesian regime, a Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor (CAVR) was established with the support of the UN Human Rights Unit to investigate human rights violations committed over the period of the 1974 Civil War, the Indonesian invasion and occupation, up until the post-referendum violence in September 1999. The CAVR addressed nine categories of human rights violation, including the theme of ‘forced displacement and famine’. Drawing on many hundreds of eyewitness testimonies, the CAVR’s Forced Displacement and Famine Report identified key events that triggered population displacement, the places where people sought shelter, and the strategies they drew upon for their survival (CAVR 2005b). The report depicted the displaced people as ‘victims’ and ‘brave survivors’ and included photographic evidence to highlight the severity of malnutrition and starvation within the detention camps. The testimonies presented to the CAVR on displacement and famine spanned the period from 1974 to 1985, marking the most turbulent period of the occupation prior to the 1999 militia violence. The short time frame focus of the CAVR in other words omitted the long-term physical, psychological, social, economic, and cultural scars of displacement experienced by large numbers of Timor-Leste citizens. Although by no means dismissing the suffering and atrocities of war, the human rights approach taken by the CAVR tended to neglect stories of resilience whereby people fought against terrible hardships to find durable solutions on their own terms. To date, Timor-Leste state officials have chosen to view the findings of the CAVR as a documentation of human rights violations committed during the period from 1974 to 1999. The recommendations, however, and particularly those related to victim reparations, have been limited (Kent 2011). Rather than bringing perpetrators to justice, the government has taken a forward-looking approach by addressing historical grievances through compensatory social transfers and a focus on broader economic and infrastructure development. Timorese people forcibly displaced or resettled during Indonesian times are not officially recognised as a defined group of IDPs, even those who remain in protracted displaced situations. The UN Guiding Principles on Internal Displacement, introduced relatively recently in 1996, is the main international instrument that enshrines the rights and guarantees towards IDPs that are consistent with international human rights and humanitarian conventions. Unlike the international law on refugees, the Guiding Principles are not legally binding, but simply assist the actions of national and local authorities to protect and support IDPs, with international humanitarian actors working in supportive roles (OCHA 2004). By contrast, the term ‘internally displaced people’ (IDPs) only became popularised in Timor-Leste when addressing the wave of internal displacement that took place as a result of the 2006 crisis, when social unrest and communal violence in the national capital of Dili forced nearly 150,000 people to flee their homes. Official state recognition of the 2006 crisis of IDPs guaranteed them security and social assistance during and after the renewed round of displacement, but the scale and impact of the disruption during this period tested the organisational capacity of government. A diverse collection of institutions took on responsibilities for managing the social welfare of urban-based IDPs during 2006. This included the International Organisation for Migration (IOM), a range of bilateral donors and civil society organisations, under the nominal coordination of the Office of the Vice Prime Minister, the Ministry of Labour and Community Re-insertion (MTRC), the Ministry of Social Solidarity (MSS) as well as the UNHCR. MTRC and MSS provided food, everyday necessities, and economic assistance to all registered people in the informal IDP camps that sprung up around Dili as well as those 179

Pyone Myat Thu

who sought shelter elsewhere. IDP households received tarpaulin, tents, a monthly food ration of rice, oil, and other basic provisions, such as clean water and health services. MSS was further responsible for IDP repatriation and reintegration processes. It is noteworthy that approximately 50% of the total IDPs generated by the 2006 crisis sought refuge in the rural districts with their relatives (IDMC 2011). This high return rate indicates the continued strength of kin and social networks, and the reactivation of customary modes of exchange and reciprocity during times of adversity. It highlights the kind of adaptive resilience that are observable in multiple situations across Timor-Leste following the end of occupation and exemplified in the case study sites of Simpang Tiga and Foho Ailicu. The Timor-Leste government provided aid to the urban IDPs from 2006 to 2010 when the camps were officially closed. As a result of the experience, the government developed a comprehensive recovery package known as Hamutuk Hari’i Futuru (Building the Future ­Together). Official IDP statistics in Timor-Leste continue to exclude historically displaced populations, and after the last of the IDP camps was closed, the government reported that there were no longer any IDPs in the country (IDMC 2012). Since the Guiding Principles are non-binding, the Timor-Leste state has no legal obligation to recognise, compensate, or find durable solutions for those of its citizens who were historically displaced and it is worth pausing to consider if indeed the Timor-Leste state should bear the sole responsibility for restitution and reparation to those forcibly displaced by the Indonesian regime. Nonetheless, if historically displaced Timorese were to seek some kind of formal reparations for their loss and emotional turmoil, they might find more success by appealing their circumstances under international human rights law without necessarily resorting to the IDP status, since all rights incorporated in the Guiding Principles are repeated in a number of international binding conventions.

Finding durable solutions to internal displacement The Indonesian administration’s modernisation approach to development through forced resettlement of highland populations onto the lowlands closer to roads and public services evidently had some positive outcomes for local livelihoods. In Simpang Tiga and Mulia, a large proportion of settlers became accustomed to living next to the road where access to government services, such as schools, health clinics, and markets, are much better than their remote origin settlements. In general, and like many other resettled communities across Timor-Leste, those who have elected to remain in Simpang Tiga and Mulia have come to terms with their historical displacement. At the same time, many settlers in both localities lead multilocal livelihoods. A regular return by families in Simpang Tiga and Foho Ailicu to Riatu, Lesuai, and Lesulau is readily observed when they attend ritual proceedings associated with birth, marriage, and funerals of relatives. Return was further observable during cash crop seasons when families supplement their livelihoods by harvesting betel nut and coffee beans, which are subsequently sold in small quantities in the local markets. Residents in Mulia similarly frequented their ancestral settlements in Quelicai for kin group rituals, whilst many families retained access to cultivation fields and fruit groves. In both sites, settlers expressed a sense of belonging to their current places of residence in tandem to leading livelihoods in multiple places. Families were strategically residing between ancestral settlements and new settlements in order to make the most out of the available resources in their local environments. Extended families disperse for much of the time but remain mutually interdependent and come together periodically to celebrate their mutual obligations as affines and kin. Households in Foho Ailicu look after 180

Internal displacement

the cattle of their relatives who have chosen to return permanently to the origin settlement. At the same time, family members who live in the origin place maintain fruit and cash crop plantations on behalf of distant family members. After three decades of resettlement, some settlers have registered their names in Foho Ailicu village, but others have chosen to retain their residential identity in their origin hamlets for administrative purposes in recognition of their birthplace. Such gestures indicate an enduring connection to one’s origin place. Customary landowners were also impacted by displacement and have had to accommodate the long-term presence of settlers. Customary landowner-settler relations in Simpang Tiga and Foho Ailicu are harmonious in comparison to Mulia since landowners have a long history of accommodating in-coming migrants, who, in turn, typically married into the landowning groups and were politically aligned to them. Respondents emphasised there has always been mobility of people between the two villages based on their common history, marital, and political links. Landowners and settlers alike feared spiritual repercussions if they tried to cut off one another from accessing ‘sacred land’. Some respondents had cultivated food gardens and reared cattle in the vast plains of Foho Ailicu village since colonial times due to insufficient land for gardens in their highland settlements characterised by a rugged terrain, which also made raising livestock on the hills difficult. Highland residents moved down to the river plains seasonally to open gardens and keep livestock where there was a relatively larger amount of land available. The Indonesian-era wave of settlers relayed they could plant perennials such as papaya and banana, but not valuable trees such as teak which signified permanent residence. They described their status in Foho Ailicu as ‘sitting’ (tu’ur), which equally suggested use rights over land, rather than ownership. In contrast, customary landowners of Mulia insisted that the settlers should return to their origin place since the adverse circumstances of war and occupation have long ended. Landowners were reluctant to give up their customary claims of Wai’aka – the customary placename of Mulia. The landowners’ continued hostility towards settlers can be attributed to a limited number of inter-marriages between the two communities, historically and in the present. Inter-communal tension persisted and was exacerbated by historical and contemporary political divisions. Along with contentious land boundaries tracing back to Portuguese colonial times, landowners believed several members of the local pro-Indonesia militia originated from Quelicai and resided in Mulia. Landowners, by contrast, were actively involved in the pro-independence movement as armed combatants and clandestine members. Most militia members left for West Timor in 1999; however, their family members are thought to remain in Mulia. The lack of marriage and political affiliations has in turn impeded social integration in the long run. The younger generation identified as ema Mulia (Mulia person), which expressed their belonging and emplacement at the resettlement site. Despite their long-term residence in Mulia, settlers were cognisant that they ultimately did not have legal rights or customary claims to land. They longed for the Timor-Leste state to recognise Mulia as an official administrative village where they can remain permanently. Respondents in both field sites situated their experiences of displacement within the broader discourses of suffering and their local social worlds, embracing and redefining their identities as ‘displaced persons’ to meet different ends – asserting vulnerability and independence simultaneously in re-establishing livelihoods in the resettlement sites. Securing land access from customary landowners in Mulia, Simpang Tiga, and Foho ­A ilicu is ­circumscribed by place-based socio-economic relationships embedded in kinship, m ­ arriage, reciprocal exchanges, and political ties (cf. Koczberski et al. 2009). Respondents’ o ­ ngoing social status in their respective places of resettlement are contingent and ambivalent, ­implying displacement is lived and negotiated in dynamic ways, starkly in opposition to 181

Pyone Myat Thu

the one-dimensional short-term official views of displacement and people affected by it. Families in both field sites demonstrate resilience and innovation in overcoming livelihood destruction and social upheaval through creating multilocal livelihoods over the decades of resettlement.

Conclusion This chapter has mapped the long-term social impacts of mass internal displacement during the Indonesian occupation of Timor-Leste that continues to shape and reshape local land relations and livelihoods. Like forcibly displaced populations elsewhere, displaced Timorese have been subjected to international and national discourses that portray them as ‘victims’ and ‘survivors’ of war and violence. These disempowering representations disguise the individual and collective agency exercised to respond to, and overcome, the adverse social, political, and environmental circumstances. As a result of repeated waves of displacement and dispossession, there are multiple and overlapping claims over land and property in Timor-Leste. Following the President’s veto of one of numerous draft Land Laws in 2013, on the premise that three particular laws would bestow excessive power in the state, the revised Land Law was enacted in June 2017. The laws are yet to be implemented; however, the Special Regime for the Ownership of Immovable Property is most likely to have a direct impact on the rights to access and ownership of land and property amongst the internally displaced. Strategies adopted by settlers in Simpang Tiga and Mulia to gain access to land were strikingly different, yet they hinged on the importance of local agro-ecologies and complex socio-political histories that have influenced customary landowner-settler relations. In Simpang Tiga, residents were able to cultivate food gardens in the neighbouring village of Foho Ailicu by engaging long-standing socio-political affiliations with customary landowners and previous waves of settlers. Whereas in Mulia, residents worked as sharecroppers in the customary landowners’ rice paddies and pursued additional off-farm activities. The imposition of formal land and property legislation may therefore alter existing customary practices and accommodations of social inclusion and land access. What began as ‘conflict-induced’ displacement has been transformed into new modes of social and economic migration as settlers situate themselves strategically to reap the most out of translocal livelihoods. In both localities, most families found themselves dispersed, with the older generations mostly returning to the natal settlements whilst the younger generation and their parents continued to reside in the new settlements to take advantage of modern amenities. But faced with limited land access and land shortages in the resettlement areas, residents of Simpang Tiga and Mulia have found innovative ways to mitigate social, economic, and environmental risks and to diversify livelihoods that spanned geographical spaces. The translocal livelihoods established by settlers in both sites challenge conventional ‘sedentary’ or emplacement approaches taken to address displacement through resettlement, repatriation, or local integration. This chapter has largely focused on internal displacement during the period of Indonesian occupation, but it has much relevance to contemporary Timor-Leste where there remain large numbers of people living in protracted situations of displacement under a range of informal land tenure arrangements (Fitzpatrick et al. 2013). These populations are seeking enduring solutions to their plight. In recent years, as the Timor-Leste national government pursues a range of large-scale infrastructure projects in the capital Dili, and regional sites of Suai, and Oecusse, residents in these areas have once again faced the threat and reality of forced resettlement to make way 182

Internal displacement

for state-led development. Whilst these are typically advanced in the name of improving local living standards, they can cause major disruptions to local livelihood practices and dispossess people of their land and property (see Meitzner Yoder 2015 and this volume). Further place-based research to better understand what counts as ‘durable solutions’ to displacement and how distinctive solutions might be pursued to improve the welfare of displaced populations is urgently needed. The need to ensure secure access to arable land and increased livelihood resilience amongst the internally displaced is in turn highly a key ingredient of peace and stability in this young developing nation.

References Budiardjo C. and Liem S.L. (1984) The War against East Timor, London: Zed Books Ltd. CAVR (2005a) Forced Displacement and Famine. Dili: Commission for Reception Truth and Reconciliation in Timor-Leste (CAVR). CAVR (2005b) Chega!: The Report of the Commission for Reception, Truth, and Reconciliation in Timor-Leste Executive Summary. Dili: Commission for Reception Truth and Reconciliation in Timor-Leste (CAVR). Elmhirst R. (2012) ‘Displacement, Resettlement, and Multi-local Livelihoods’. Critical Asian Studies, 44(1): 131–152. Fitzpatrick D. and Barnes S. (2010) ‘The Relative Resilience of Property: First Possession and Order without Law in East Timor’. Law & Society Review, 44(2): 205–238. Fitzpatrick D., McWilliam A., and Barnes S. (2013) Property and Social Resilience in Times of Conflict: Land, Custom, and Law in East Timor. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing. Hartnack, A. (2009) ‘Transcending Global and National (mis)Representations through Local Responses to Displacement: The Case of Zimbabwean (ex-)Farm Workers’. Journal of Refugee Studies, 22(3): 351–377. IDMC (2011) ‘Timor-Leste: IDPs Have Returned Home, but the Challenge of Reintegration Is Just ­Beginning’. Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC). Available: www.­internaldisplacement. org/8025708F004CE90B/%28httpCountries%29/3FF6A63FDDF45BD6C12571780029F4AB?­ OpenDocument [Accessed 12 October 2017]. IDMC (2012) ‘Less than 1,000 People Remained Displaced at the End of 2011 (April 2012)’. ­Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC). Available: www.internal-displacement.org/idmc/ website/countries.nsf/%28httpEnvelopes%29/3FDA482E5D76F2E1C1257233005344BB?­ OpenDocument#47.1.1 [Accessed 23 February 2013]. IDMC (2016) ‘Global Report on Internal Displacement’. Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC). Available: www.internal-displacement.org/globalreport2016/ [Accessed 5 July 2017]. Jacobsen K. (2014) ‘Livelihoods and Forced Migration’. In E. Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, G. Loescher, K. Long, and N. Sigona (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Refugee and Forced Migration Studies, (pp. 99–103), Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kent L. (2011) ‘Local Memory Practices in East Timor: Disrupting Transitional Justice Narratives’. The International Journal of Transitional Justice, 5: 434–455. Koczberski G., Curry G.N., and Imbun B. (2009) ‘Property Rights for Social Inclusion: Migrant Strategies for Securing Land and Livelihoods in Papua New Guinea’. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 50(1): 29–42. Malkki L.H. (1995) ‘Refugees and Exile: From Refugee Studies to the National Order of Things’. Annual Review of Anthropology, 24: 495–523. Meitzner Yoder L.M. (2015) ‘The Development Eraser: Fantastical Schemes, Aspirational Distractions and High Modern Mega-events in the Oecusse encalve, Timor-Leste’. Journal of Political Ecology, 22: 299–321. OCHA (2004) Guiding Principles for Internal Displacement. Geneva: United Nations Office for the ­Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA). Stepputat F. (1999) ‘Politics of Displacement in Guatemala’. Journal of Historical Sociology, 12(1): 54–80. Taylor J. (1999) East Timor: The Price of Freedom. London, New York: Zed Books. Thu, P.M. 2012. ‘Access to Land and Livelihoods in Post-Conflict Timor-Leste’. Australian Geographer, 43(2), 197-214.

183

Pyone Myat Thu Thu P.M. (2015) ‘Displacement and Informal Repatriation in a Rural Timorese Village’. In S. Ingram, L. Kent, and A. McWilliam (eds.), A New Era? Timor-Leste after the UN (pp. 251–263). Canberra: ANU Press. Thurton D. (2003) ‘Refugees and Other Forced Migrants: Towards a Unitary Study of Forced ­M igration’. Refugees Studies Centre (RSC) Working Paper No. 3, Oxford: Refugee Studies Centre. United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) (2016). Figures at a Glance. Retrieved from: http://unhcr.org/en-au/figures-at-a-glance.html (accessed on 12 March 2018). Van Hear N. (2006) ‘Refugees in Diaspora: From Durable Solutions to Transnational Relations’. Refuge, 23(1): 9–15. Willems R. (2003) ‘Embedding the Refugee Experience: Forced Migration and Social Networks in Das Es Salaam, Tanzania’. PhD dissertation, University of Florida. Wise A. (2006) Exile and Return among the East Timorese. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

184

14 Veterans and the politics of citizenship Lia Kent

Symbols of veteran identity are everywhere in Timor-Leste. National heroes and the major turning points in the 24-year resistance struggle are celebrated in monuments and public holidays. The remains of hundreds of deceased members of the Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor (Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste – FALINTIL) combatants rest in a Garden of Heroes cemetery in Metinaro. Perhaps of most consequence, however, is the requirement in Timor-Leste’s constitution that the state ‘valorise’ the resistance by ‘protect[ing] those who participated in the resistance against foreign occupation’ and their dependents (RDTL 2002: s11.3), and develop[ing] mechanisms for ‘rendering tribute’ to national heroes (s11.4). ‘Rendering tribute’ includes the bestowal of medals and special uniforms, but is made most tangible through the provision of pensions to those who can successfully claim veteran status. Payments to veterans now consume a significant and growing percentage of the state budget (7.5% was allocated in 2017) and more is now spent on veterans than health (La’o Hamutuk 2017).1 These payments are likely to continue until 2,122 and cost an estimated $2.8 billion dollars (La’o Hamutuk 2013).2 In a context where a significant percentage of the population lives below the poverty line, there is much at stake in successfully claiming veteran status. In addition to becoming eligible for sizeable pensions, veterans are granted preferential access to government contracts (La’o Hamutuk 2013)3 and veterans’ views, not surprisingly, carry weight in parliamentary debates, election campaigns, and in local politics.4 These high stakes are reflected in the number of Timorese who have sought to register their names in order to be assessed for a veterans’ pension. There are now 200,755 names in the database.5 As several commentators point out, this figure seems unrealistically high given that Timor-Leste has a population of around one million people and more than half of them are too young to have participated in the resistance struggle (Myrttinnen 2014: 99–100; Rothschild 2015). Against this backdrop, it is not surprising that public criticism has emerged, focusing on the lack of financial sustainability of veterans’ payments in the context of declining oil and gas revenues from the Timor Sea (La’o Hamutuk 2013; Fundasaun Mahein 2015). A further set of critiques is beginning to shed light on the ways veterans’ programmes contribute to shaping the boundaries of inclusion and exclusion within current imaginings of the nation (see in particular Roll 2014a, 2014b). This latter set of critiques is informed by the insights of critical peacebuilding scholars who have explored, in a range of contexts, the intricate ways in which 185

Lia Kent

disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR) programmes and longer term veterans’ support programmes are entangled with broader questions of political economy, state formation and the constitution of identities (e.g. Pouligny 2004; Sriram and Herman 2009; Wale 2016). Rather than treating these programmes as ostensibly ‘technical’ exercises that simply recognise pre-existing identities (as much of the policy literature tends to do), this scholarship is interested in how the practices and discourses of these programmes actively constitute identities and embed them in the fabric of social life. It examines how, by this process, insiders and outsiders and hierarchies of the deserving are constructed in ways that have long-term ramifications for questions of citizenship and inequality (Wale 2016: 34). This chapter provides an overview of key themes emerging from recent scholarship on veterans and the nation-building process in Timor-Leste. It brings these themes into dialogue with recent insights from the critical citizenship literature to argue that veterans’ programmes have emerged as a key site at which ‘hierarchies of citizenship’ (Martins 2017: 100) are both constructed and negotiated. I adopt a dynamic conceptualisation of citizenship that moves beyond an exclusive preoccupation with citizenship as a legal and political category that is bestowed (or denied) by the state. I aim to be alert to the ‘social, political, cultural and symbolic practices of making citizens’ (Isin 2008: 17) and to the ways in which citizenship is enacted, performed or asserted through everyday mechanisms and actions ( Jeffrey and Jakala 2015: 44). By attending to how social policies and practices ‘shape people’s attitudes, behaviour and ­aspirations’ about the meanings of citizenship and to the interpretations and strategies that citizens adopt in relation to those policies and practices (Ong 2003: 27–28), individuals are not treated as passive recipients of a predetermined concept. Rather, they are seen as being active in the construction of their own citizenship, even as they are also constrained by broader social and political structures and discourses (McEwen 2005: 972). This more dynamic understanding of citizenship, as shall become evident, is a useful starting point for considering how the veterans’ scheme in Timor-Leste shapes attitudes about, and yet is never fully able to settle, the question of whose lives are most valued in the national imagination. After an overview of some of the powerful imperatives that appear to underpin the ­political elite’s preoccupation with veterans’ issues, the chapter traces the evolution of ­programmes to deal with these issues in Timor-Leste. I highlight how these programmes ­contribute to the e­ mergence of the veteran as a prominent identity category and elevate the status of elite, male combatants. At the same time, they reveal the ‘veteran’ to be a fundamentally ­u nsettled ­notion. I then show how the labile nature of veteran identity is also evident in the ongoing attempts to ‘resolve’ what has been termed the veterans’ question (kestaun veteranus) through processes of ‘verification.’ The following section draws on Kate Roll’s compelling ­on-the-ground observations of the verification process to demonstrate how the ‘gatekeeping’ practices of commissioners have made veteran status an increasingly negotiated commodity (Roll 2014a: 96). Finally, I explain how the negotiated dimension of the scheme has opened up ­possibilities of struggles for recognition by other diverse groups in society whilst also limiting the parameters of the debate.

Valorisation and security imperatives The size of the veterans’ pension scheme and the preoccupation with veterans’ issues generally in Timor-Leste needs to be understood in the context of two powerful imperatives: valorisation and national security. The constitutionally embedded imperative to ‘valorise’ heroes is driven by a powerful nationalist narrative of resistance that, since the nation’s independence, has been central to the political elite’s efforts to ‘imagine’ a post-conflict national identity and 186

Veterans and politics

bolster the legitimacy of the state (Leach 2017: 167–68). This narrative celebrates the story of how the East Timorese, through courage, forbearance, national unity and sacrifice, overcame successive colonial occupiers to achieve the nation’s independence. Its prominence is of a piece with the fact that in Timor-Leste, as in many postcolonial nations that emerged from liberation struggles, the political landscape remains dominated by figures who played key roles in the struggle for independence long after the struggle ended (Myrttinen 2014: 99). Because it resonates amongst much of the population, the resistance narrative appears at face value to be a unifying and nation-building force (Leach 2017: 164). Yet, beneath its broadly unifying veneer, complex and shifting debates continue to take place about which political party or group is entitled symbolically to ‘own’ it (Leach 2017: 164). Moreover, the resistance narrative is inevitably both exclusionary and reductive. It is exclusionary in the sense that, by reifying certain historical experiences and subject positions (namely that of the male resistance fighter), it delineates those who have a legitimate place in the nation (and those who do not). It is reductive in the sense that it works to mask the complexities of the resistance struggle – including its internal divisions and the blurred (rather than sharp) lines between the roles of combatant, civilian and collaborator. That this masking is deemed necessary in the first place speaks volumes about postcolonial anxieties around the fragility of national unity. Intricately entwined with the valorisation imperative, anxieties about questions of national security have also informed the preoccupation with veterans’ issues. Security is an underpinning rationale of DDR and long-term veterans support programmes which, at the time of the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) state-building intervention, had become central to post-conflict peacebuilding orthodoxies (Muggah and O’Donnell 2015: 2). A key concern is that, without assisting ex-combatants to reintegrate into society, this group will remain a ‘ticking time bomb’ and a destabilising influence (de Vries and Wiegink 2011: 38). Security anxieties were an understandable preoccupation during the transition to national independence, and resurfaced once more during the 2006 crisis, which saw the mobilisation of several groups of disaffected veterans, and the growing visibility of a number of resistance era fault lines (Myrttinen 2014: 95). These anxieties mean that East Timorese veterans are not only designated as heroes of the nation, but they are also deemed to be potential ‘spoilers’ with the capacity to destabilise the self-same nation. This dual construction of the veteran as hero and social problem poses obstacles to the reduction of veterans’ benefits and justifies the targeting of veterans disproportionately over other groups in society (cf Metsola 2006: 1128). At a more concrete level, the current veterans’ pension scheme is an outcome of the various veterans’ assistance and registration programmes established by the international community and the East Timorese government following the referendum. These programmes have, over time, worked to shore up the interests of elite, male, former combatants over those who played different kinds of roles during the resistance. Nonetheless, the attempts of these programmes to definitively settle the question of who and who is not a veteran have similarly proved elusive. In part, this is because, as the political, economic and symbolic stakes associated with this form of identity have grown, so too have the number of individuals seeking to lay a claim to it.

The evolution of the veterans’ pension scheme and of armed male combatants The first programme to address veterans’ issues was initiated by UNTAET in the ­a ftermath of the 1999 referendum. UNTAET had a mandate not only to deal with immediate DDR priorities but also to assist former combatants to make the transition to civilian life 187

Lia Kent

(Kings College London 2003: para 48). A particular preoccupation was what to do with a group of around 1,950 former FALINTIL fighters who were gathered together in a cantonment in Aileu. Despite its mandate, UNTAET was very slow to act, in part because UN rules proscribed it from providing assistance to armed groups, and because no decision had yet been reached about whether and how a national military force might be established (World Bank 2008: 7; Kings College London 2003 para v). After much deliberation between UNTAET and the Timorese leadership, 15 months after their initial cantonment, 650 former guerrillas were selected by Xanana Gusmão and the FALINTIL high command to join the new national defence force (ICG 2011: 4). The remaining 1,300 were channelled into the FALINTIL Reinsertion Assistance Programme (FRAP) that was funded by the World Bank and the US Agency for International Development (USAID), and implemented by the International Organization for Migration (IOM). The objective of FRAP was to assist the social and economic reintegration of former combatants through a year-long programme that provided tools, training and grants to begin income-generating activities (Kent 2006). A key limitation of FRAP was its conceptualisation as a short-term response that aimed to diffuse what was perceived to be an immediate security threat – combatants in the cantonment. The programme, in other words, failed to address long-term questions of reintegration. Moreover, in the process of diffusing one threat, FRAP created a new set of issues. For instance, the role played by Xanana Gusmão and the FALINTIL high command in deciding which former combatants would be selected to join the new national defence force (without reference to well-publicised selection criteria), fostered resentments amongst those who missed out (World Bank 2008: 8; ICG 2011: 4). FRAP also excluded those who had left the cantonment before the programme had begun as well as those who had participated in FALINTIL in the earlier years of the conflict (and had left by the time of the referendum). These resentments fuelled the emergence of a number of ‘ex-FALINTIL’ veterans’ groups, which were construed as potential threats to security in the post-independence period (World Bank 2008: 8; ICG 2011). Since FRAP, responsibility for dealing with veterans’ issues has largely fallen to the newly independent Timor-Leste state. These efforts began in August 2002, when then President Xanana Gusmão established two veterans’ commissions with a remit to identify and register veterans of the armed front. The Commission for the Issues of Former Combatants (Comissão para os Assuntos dos Antigos Combatentes – CAAC) and the Commission for the Issues of FALINTIL Veterans (Comissão para os Assuntos dos Veteranos do FALINTIL – CAVF) were tasked jointly with registering combatants who had participated in the struggle from 1975 to 1999. Together, they recorded the names of approximately 36,959 individuals (Kent 2006: 12). The focus on the armed front brought another set of issues to the fore, however, as members of the clandestine front – the network of thousands of Timorese men and women based in the villages and towns who had provided critical support to FALINTIL – felt themselves to be unfairly excluded (Kent 2006: 12). The response of Gusmão was to establish another commission, the Commission for Matters of Cadres of the Resistance (Comissão para os Assuntos dos Quadros da Resistência – CAQR), in 2004, which registered cadres who had held formal positions within the civilian ranks of the resistance (otherwise known as the clandestine front). The CAQR registered 36,606 individuals, including 9,796 women (or 27% of registrants.) Following these initial registration attempts, veterans’ debates shifted to the realm of legislation development and informed the drafting of the 2006 Statute of the National Liberation Combatants. The statute defined a ‘National Liberation Combatant’ (NLC) as a Timorese citizen who participated in the independence struggle for more than three years (or less than 188

Veterans and politics

three years if killed due to their participation in the struggle) and was ‘part of the structures or organizations of the Resistance.’6 It outlined that benefits for NLCs would include various forms of symbolic recognition, including medals, the right to funeral honours, and presidential decorations.7 NLCs, their spouses and children were also granted rights to access state health and education services free of charge.8 A later decree established scholarships to assist with uniforms, books and tertiary education fees for veterans’ children.9 The legislation also provided entitlements to pensions for certain veterans. Whilst the 2006 statute was an attempt to fix the definition of veteran-hood (and the rights that would be extended to different veterans), this attempt proved elusive. Since its enactment, parliament has made various amendments to the veterans’ legislation, in particular to pension requirements. A key change has involved a shift from an emphasis on ‘vulnerability’ to a focus on ‘length of service’ and ‘rank’ in the resistance hierarchy as key factors in determining pension amounts.10 A combatant’s years of service are considered to be the sum of all periods of deportation, detention and work in ‘exclusive dedication’ to the Resistance (‘exclusive dedication’ meaning that individuals were not engaged in study or regular waged labour). Pension amounts have also risen steadily. Whilst the lowest pension to living former resistance members was initially USD 85 per month, this has now grown to USD 276 per month, an amount that is many times higher than the average monthly Timorese income (Kent and Wallis 2014).11 At the other end of the spectrum, the ‘superior pension,’ which is designated for a tiny group of 15 individuals who played prominent roles in the liberation struggle, provides USD750 per month. This is, as Roll (2014a: 105) points out, ‘more than double the average yearly income.’ These shifts in the veteran’s scheme appear to reflect a confluence of factors and influences, amongst them, political pressure from powerful former guerrillas promoting the valorisation imperative (who have close personal connections to Xanana Gusmão) and newly flowing oil revenues and security anxieties in the wake of the 2006–2007 crisis. The effect of these shifts has been the development of a scheme that is narrowly associated with those who participated in the armed component of the resistance struggle, to the detriment of those who participated in the clandestine front (Kent and Kinsella 2015). The requirement to prove ‘exclusive dedication’ to the resistance for more than three years has made it difficult for members of the clandestine front (who often concealed their activities behind study or work, or used their position within the Indonesian government, police or military to pass on intelligence to the resistance) to make up the required years.12 Women, who often supported the resistance in informal ways rather than holding designated ranks within formal resistance structures, have been particularly marginalised within the veterans’ scheme. By elevating questions of rank, length of service, uniforms and weapons, the scheme has promoted a narrative in which men are ‘the real actors’ and women are accorded support roles as cooks, couriers, messengers and carers of children (Nagel 1998: 244). Only a small number of women have been able to live up to the militarised, masculine ideals enshrined in the veterans’ scheme. After much lobbying, a small group of women who had been stationed with FALINTIL in the jungle for the duration of the resistance were, in 2006, granted the symbolic ‘Order of the Guerilla.’13 However, there is a sense that, even for this group, the recognition was given grudgingly (Niner 2013: 242).

Resolving the kestaun veteranus (veterans question) Anxieties about veterans’ issues have carried over into the various processes designed to ‘verify’ veterans’ claims and are present in public debates about how best to resolve what has been termed the kestaun veteranus (veterans’ question) (ICG 2011: 6). This ‘question’ is not always 189

Lia Kent

clearly defined (ICG 2011: 6) but, in a general sense, it revolves around a perception that the registration data have yet to be accurately verified. This situation, in turn, is construed as a failure of the state to fulfil the valorisation imperative by adequately repaying those who struggled and sacrificed for the nation (see Kammen 2009: 387–391; ICG 2011: 6). An added dimension of the veterans’ question is a public anxiety that so-called ‘false veterans (­veteranus falsu) are unfairly benefitting from the scheme at the expense of ‘authentic’ applicants. There are frequent complaints that individuals have exaggerated their service or have been under-recognised for their years of active engagement, and calls for the reactivation of resistance structures in order to weed out the false claims from the authentic (e.g. Gusmão 2016a). Part of the reason for these anxieties is that, due to the high stakes associated with veteran identity, the number of those claiming veteran status has increased significantly over the past few years. A notable surge occurred in 2009 when, in the wake of the 2006 crisis, the then new Prime Minister Gusmão – in a pragmatic recognition of the need to ‘buy peace’ – opened a new round of registration. Around 125,000 self-identified former resistance m ­ embers registered as veterans at this time, adding to the 76,000 names already in the database. The data set of those who registered in 2009 has yet to be verified by the body currently ­entrusted with this role, namely, the Commission for Homage, Supervision of Registration, and ­Appeals (Comissão de Homenagem, Supervisão do Registo e Recursos – CHSRR). The CHSRR (organised into 65 councils composed of local resistance leaders) is tasked with supervising the public display of registration lists and holding community-level meetings during which there is an opportunity for individuals to make complaints regarding errors or the improper inclusion of names (Roll 2014a: 96). Yet, verifying veterans’ claims has proven incredibly complex. Aside from the fact that there are so many claims to deal with, there are political issues associated with completing the verification of data from the earlier phase of registration and moving on to the 2009 data set. In particular, there remain around 5,000 complaints requiring resolution, primarily involving individuals seeking to register an increase in their years of participation in the resistance, and hence their pension amounts. Given that there is no limit on the number of complaints an individual can make (and there is pressure from sections of the military to resolve all complaints before moving on to the 2009 data set), it seems unlikely that those who registered in 2009 will have their claims assessed for some time to come.14 Adding to these complexities is the fact that the CHSRR is confronted with the ‘potentially unresolvable’ challenge of ‘seeking to represent a ‘complex history in administrative categories’ (Roll 2014a: 87). The very messiness of the Indonesian occupation confounds attempts to draw clear lines between those ‘in’ and ‘out’ (Roll 2014a: 87). For one thing, the structures of the resistance were nowhere near as defined as clear-cut as the ranks listed in the veteran registration form suggest. The registration form lists neat chains of command, and titles which are more fictive than a reflection of reality (Roll 2014a: 70). It also rests on a clean division between the armed, clandestine and diplomatic fronts which was often blurred in practice. Furthermore, the veterans’ scheme’s attempt to draw bright lines between ‘resistance’ and ‘collaboration’ is fraught in a context where, during the Indonesian occupation, many East Timorese played multiple roles either simultaneously or at different times, in an effort to survive (Drexler 2013: 3). To take one key example, those who voluntarily surrendered with weapons and those who collaborated with the enemy either during or after leaving the struggle are barred from the scheme (World Bank 2008: 19–21). Yet, these grounds for disqualification raise tough questions such as ‘how to determine the difference between “willing collaboration with the enemy” and working with the Indonesian administration while supporting the resistance clandestinely?’ Measuring the extent to which surrender with a gun was ‘voluntary’ is also inherently problematic (World Bank 2008: 21).15 190

Veterans and politics

The fact that these distinctions are deemed important at all reveals much about the perceived necessity of maintaining the resistance narrative, with its underpinning myth of a national liberation struggle that was unified, highly structured and organised against a common (external) enemy. In other words, the existence of these distinctions highlights the degree to which current imaginings of national identity rest on the continuing portrayal of the resistance as an armed struggle by East Timorese nationalists against colonial domination. This results directly in the occlusion of what was in reality a far more complicated process that involved multiple actors and interests and shifting roles (cf Metsola 2010: 609). Because maintaining the resistance narrative requires individuals to squeeze the complexities of their experiences into the narrow administrative categories of the scheme, ongoing forms of challenge and contestation regarding ‘errors’ in the veterans’ database and claims of false veteran-hood are perhaps inevitable.

Negotiating veteran identity Attempts to resolve the veterans’ problem are further complicated by the way the veterans’ criteria are actively negotiated ‘on the ground’ through the registration and data verification processes. This dimension of the scheme is illustrated compellingly by Kate Roll’s extensive empirical research. Roll found that, despite the existence of firm criteria of eligibility, the process of registration and verification is far messier and more negotiable in practice. She documents how the CHSRR commissioners who oversee these processes (most of whom had been selected based on their senior roles within resistance structures) act as literal ‘gatekeepers’ (Roll 2014a: 96). Specifically, commissioners use their positions to extract rents (e.g. demanding payments to be registered); include ineligible individuals due to pre-existing family ties; exaggerate the service records of family members or close associates; reduce or exclude the service records of some individuals due to personal disputes; and use personal connections to those in power to fast-track payments or resolve issues with registration. Roll also found commissioners to be quite open about the ways in which they ‘modify’ eligibility criteria to ‘recognize special service and incorporate members of the clandestine front’ where they deemed this necessary (Roll 2014a: 196–199, 2014b: 487). Roll’s insights enable a deeper appreciation of the negotiated nature of the veterans’ scheme. They help to shed light, for instance, on why some individuals and groups have been successful in pushing for their inclusion within the scheme even if they do not meet the criteria. A key example of this can be seen in the efforts of the 12 November committee – an organisation that represents over 2,000 survivors of the Santa Cruz massacre of 1992 (ICG 2011: 8) – to argue for the recognition of those who had been involved in the initial demonstration that sparked the massacre. At the time of the 20th anniversary of Santa Cruz, the secretary of state for veterans’ affairs explained that the 1991 organisers ‘could only count their involvement as one day of service’ (ICG 2011: 8). Yet, because of its political influence and its close links to the political elite, the committee has successfully advocated for their inclusion in the scheme on the grounds of ‘special service’ (Roll 2014a: 201–202).16 The example of the 12 November committee highlights the reality that whilst there is some room for negotiation around the criteria for exclusion/inclusion within the scheme, not all Timorese have the same capacity to negotiate. Money or personal connections (through kin or resistance networks) to those in power are key. In this sense, CHSRR commissioners might be understood as bolstering their own power by mediating exchanges between ‘little men’ and political leaders in a dynamic that some commentators describe as clientelism (Scambary 2015: 287). All of this suggests that the veterans’ scheme is fostering a 191

Lia Kent

vision of citizenship that differs sharply from its (idealised) liberal conceptualisation in which rights-holding citizens are portrayed as participating equally in a polity. By reinforcing the idea that the state is a source of benefits and resources that those with the right connections may tap into, the scheme underscores the continuing relevance of resistance-era networks and patronage politics in independent Timor-Leste (Roll 2014a: 194).

The boundaries of citizenship The veterans’ scheme has not only worked to construct veteran-hood as a privileged category of citizenship, but it has also helped to construct the parameters around which many other struggles for recognition are taking place. To put this differently, the scheme (and the resistance narrative that animates it) has provided a ‘frame of meaning’ and a set of identity positions through which Timorese can make sense of their past experiences and make claims for legitimacy as citizens in the present (Wale 2016: 10). This positioning can be seen in the wide range of initiatives by groups that are not necessarily aimed at achieving the privileges and benefits associated with formal veteran status, but nonetheless seek to carve out a space for themselves within the resistance narrative by claiming that their contributions to the nation’s liberation have hitherto been overlooked. Examples of such efforts can be seen in the recently announced initiative of the Secretary of State for Youth and Sport to document the experiences of youth during the resistance. This initiative follows on from the nationwide project initiated by the Popular Organisation of East Timorese Women (Organizacao Popular de Mulher Timor – OPMT) in 2010, to document women’s diverse roles in the resistance. The OPMT project, which undertook interviews with hundreds of East Timorese women around the country, sought to challenge the militarised, masculine emphasis of the resistance narrative by drawing attention to women’s under-recognised roles in the struggle and to the importance of everyday forms of resistance in the sphere of the family, the community and the church. In this sense, it subtly attempts to broaden the meanings of heroism and sacrifice in Timor-Leste (Kent 2016). The centrality of the resistance narrative to current imaginings of citizenship creates difficulties however, for those who are unable to claim even a lowly place within it. A clear hierarchy of the deserving, and a clear sense of insiders and outsiders, has been constructed. Evidence of this can be seen in the prevalence of accusations of ‘treachery’ which, from time to time, are directed at those who are perceived not to have contributed to the nation’s liberation and to be unjustly benefitting from the fruits of independence. Amongst those targeted are members of the extensive East Timorese diaspora (who are said to have led easy lives abroad and then returned to claim good jobs following the nation’s independence) and those who had supported Timor-Leste’s integration with Indonesia.17 Questions of legitimacy also hang over younger generations of East Timorese, including activists who studied in Indonesia during the occupation and are now in their forties. Whilst some have been able to carve out public, political roles, the formal political sphere remains dominated by an older generation of resistance leaders who continue to bemoan the ‘lack of readiness among the younger generation’ for political leadership whilst failing to provide opportunities for them (ICG 2011: 16; Anibal 2017). Those who are part of an even younger generation born after the referendum are continually reminded of their ‘easy’ lives and their need to work hard to uphold the values of their heroic predecessors. Their place near the bottom of the hierarchy of citizenship is reinforced by what Bexley refers to as a ‘youth defectology’ discourse that focuses on ‘young people as a violent problem’ (Bexley and Tchailoro 2013: 407, citing Comaroff and Comaroff 2005). 192

Veterans and politics

One of the starkest examples of how the resistance narrative creates a hierarchy of the ­ eserving can be seen in the public debates surrounding the issue of reparations. Since the d 1999 referendum, human rights organisations and activists have argued that civilians who experienced human rights abuses during the Indonesian occupation should be ­entitled to ­reparations to help alleviate the suffering they endured. Their efforts to lobby for a ­reparations programme have, however, been vociferously opposed by political leaders and powerful veterans in the parliament who have argued that the needs of victims can only be attended too once the ‘veterans question’ is resolved (Kent 2016: 59). Whilst these arguments evoke a ­h ierarchy in which the interests of former armed combatants are elevated above those of other groups in society, they are also underpinned by deeper anxieties. By promoting the idea that all Timorese who experienced human rights violations should be recognised ­regardless of their past roles, the concept of reparations profoundly unsettles constructions of citizenship based on contributions to the resistance. Specifically, it undercuts the common perception that those who supported integration with Indonesia are ‘traitors’ who do not ­deserve to be compensated for any harm done to them (Ottendorfer 2013: 32). It also unsettles narratives of national unity by potentially drawing unwelcome attention to the divisions in the resistance movement, and to the human rights violations committed by the resistance against those within its own ranks (Ottendorfer 2013: 32).

Conclusion It seems clear that the veterans’ scheme has emerged as a key site where questions of citizenship, belonging, identity and reward are socially mediated. The scheme has entrenched the power of elite, male, resistance figures through the development of veterans’ criteria that include/exclude individuals according to their roles in the resistance and their years of service, as well as through the performance of registration and verification. This power looks set to become further entrenched following the recent passage of a new decree law that establishes a Council of National Liberation Combatants to represent veterans’ interests to the government.18 What also seems clear is that, contrary to the argument made by national political l­eaders and international organisations that recognising veterans is necessary for national ­stability, veteran-hood has become a site of ongoing debate, challenge and contestation.  The high stakes associated with veteran identity and the degree to which there is room for the negotiation of veteran status suggest that there is unlikely to be a definitive resolution of the kestaun veteranus in the short term. More broadly, the veterans’ scheme reinforces the centrality of the resistance narrative within current imaginings of East Timorese identity in ways that prevent the emergence of other, potentially more inclusive, visions of citizenship. This is in part because this narrative provides a frame of meaning and a set of identity positions around which other struggles for recognition are taking place. Whilst important initiatives are underway that seek greater recognition for the contributions of women and youth to the resistance, questions need to be asked about how far this narrative can be stretched and the degree to which it has the capacity to exclude those who cannot find a space within it.

Notes 1 This amounts to $USD 105 million compared to $USD 73 million spent the same year on health. 2 This amount could double if new veterans continue to register or the minimum wage goes up (La’o Hamutuk 2013).

193

Lia Kent 3 For instance, veterans have been the frequent recipients of contracts under infrastructure funds. In 2010–2012, contracts to veterans for projects relating to the national electrification scheme totalled $78 million and were awarded without a tender process (Leach 2017: 213; Scambary 2015: 295). 4 Political parties and leaders frequently draw on their credentials as veterans to bolster their legitimacy. In the lead-up to the 2012 elections, for instance, the resistance credentials of two former FALINTIL commanders, Xanana Gusmão and Taur Matan Ruak, were conspicuously on display (Leach 2017: 209). Similarly in relation to the 2017 presidential elections, the fact that candidate Francisco ‘Lu’olo’ Guterres clearly outstripped his competitors was also at least partly a reflection of his status as a prominent guerrilla commander. 5 Reports extracted from CHSRR database. Interview with president of CHSRR, Dili, TimorLeste, 16 April 2018. 6 Law 3/2006 as amended by Law 9/2009 of 29 July 2009, Article 4. 7 Law 3/2006 as amended by Law 9/2009 of 29 July 2009, Article 23 (1), 31–32. 8 Law 3/2006 as amended by Law 9/2009 of 29 July 2009, Article 23 (2). This is a largely symbolic entitlement, however, as primary health care and education are supposedly free for all Timorese citizens. 9 Decree Law 8/2009 of 15 January 2008. In 2010 and 2011, a total of 250 scholarships were available to a total amount of USD 152,250 and USD 169,900 respectively. 10 See Law 3/2006 prior to its amendment in English. Available at http://www.unmit.org/legal/ RDTL-Law/RDTL-Laws/Law-2006-03.pdf (accessed 10 June 2012). 11 ‘In 2010, 41% of the population lived on less than US $38 per month. The veterans’ scheme also dwarfs the small amounts of social assistance available to other groups, including the elderly and female-headed households (Kent and Wallis 2014). 12 Clandestinos, including former members of the youth clandestine front, have protested the unfairness of a scheme that has seen a disproportionate amount of benefits flowing to former guerrillas who were dependent upon their support for their survival (e.g. see Gusmão 2016b). 13 Presidential Decree 56/2006 of 5 December 2006. 14 Interview with staff member of CHSRR, Dili, Timor-Leste, 16 April 2018. 15 The World Bank report notes that this criterion was in practice dropped because of the large number of combatants who surrendered with guns in the late 1970s and later rejoined the resistance (World Bank 2008: 21). 16 Further evidence of the rise of Santa Cruz survivors within the ‘heroic hierarchy’ can be seen in the public prominence that is now given to marking this event; 12 November is now a national public holiday and is celebrated throughout Timor-Leste as National Youth Day. The TimorLeste Parliament has pledged $8 million for an official memorial to the event (Rothschild 2015: 98), the first stone of which was laid at the 2016 commemorations. 17 In late 2012, for instance, the F-FDTL chief Major General Lere ‘promised to modify the army recruitment system to prohibit recruitment of the children of pro-Indonesian supporters’ (Leach 2017: 212). Discourses of treachery have gained new meanings in recent discussions of revising the Lei Pensaun Vitalisia (Law on Subsistence Pensions), which provides lifetime pensions to parliamentarians. Arguments are put that the provision of pensions to parliamentarians (some of whom have only served one 5-year term) amounts to a form of treachery against those who fought for independence (e.g. Farga, Raimundo et al. 2016). Suggestions have also been made that the pensions are unfairly benefitting some parliamentarians who had been traitors in the past. 18 See Decree Law No 7, 28 March 2018.

References Anibal Joao. (2017) ‘Veteranus Seidauk Konfia Jerasaun Foun Kaer Ukun’ (Veterans are not yet confident that the young generation can take the lead), Suara Timor Lorosae, 15 February 2017, Available at http://suara-timor-lorosae.com/veteranus-seidauk-konfia-jerasaun-foun-kaer-ukun/ (accessed 28 November 2017). Bexley Angie and Nuno Rodrigues Tchailoro. (2013) ‘Consuming Youth: Timorese in the Resistance Against Indonesian Occupation’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 14(5): 405–422. Comaroff John and Jean Comaroff. (2005) ‘Reflections on Youth from the Past to the Postcolony’, In Makers and Breakers: Children and Youth in Postcolonial Africa, A Honwana, F. De Boeck and J. Currey (eds), pp. 31–52, Oxford: Africa World Press.

194

Veterans and politics de Vries Hugo and Nikkie Wiegink. (2011) ‘Breaking Up and Going Home? Contesting Two ­A ssumptions in the Demobilization and Reintegration of Former Combatants’, International ­Peacekeeping, 18(1): 38–51. Drexler Elizabeth. (2013) ‘Fatal Knowledges: The Social and Political Legacies of Collaboration and Betrayal in Timor-Leste’, International Journal of Transitional Justice, 7(1): 74–94. Farga Raimundo S., Timotio Gusmão and Carmen Ximenes. (2016) ‘Aprova Osan PV, Trai Heroi Ne’be Mate Ba Independensia’ (Approving money for pension vitalisia is treachery against those who died for independence), Suara Timor Lorosae, 2 November 2016. Fundasaun Mahein. (2015) ‘The Complex Problem of Veterans in Timor-Leste’, Press Release, 16 December 2015. Available at www.fundasaunmahein.org/2015/12/16/the-complex-problem-ofveterans-in-timor-leste/ (accessed 28 November 2017). Gusmão Timotio. (2016a) ‘Rezolve Problema Veteranu, Tenki Ativa Organizasaun Rezistensia’ (To resolve the veterans problem there is a need to reactivate resistance organisations), Suara Timor ­L orosae, 9 January 2017. Available at http://suara-timor-lorosae.com/rezolve-problema-veteranutenki-­ativa-organizasaun-rezistensia (accessed 28 November 2017). Gusmão Timotio. (2016b) ‘La Hetan Pensaun, Governu Izola Joven Klandestina Tempu Funu’ ­( Without pensions, the government isolates the clandestine youth from the conflict time), S ­ uara Timor ­L orosae, 21 October 2016. Available at http://suara-timor-lorosae.com/la-hetan-­pensaungovernu-izola-joven-klandestina-tempu-funu/ (accessed 28 November 2017). ICG (International Crisis Group). (2011) ‘Timor-Leste’s Veterans: An Unfinished Struggle? Asia Briefing No. 129, Dili, Jakarta, Brussels: International Crisis Group. Isin Engin F. (2008) ‘Theorizing Acts of Citizenship’, In Acts of Citizenship, Engin F. Isin and Greg M. Nielsen (eds), pp. 15–43, London: Zed Books. Jeffrey, Alex and Jakala, Michaelina. (2015) ‘Using Courts to Build States: The Competing Spaces of Citizenship in Transitional Justice Programmes’, Political Geography, 47: 43–52. Kammen Douglas. (2009) ‘Fragments of Utopia: Popular Yearnings in East Timor’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 4(2): 385–408. Kent Lia. (2006) Independent Evaluation of the CAQR, Dili: The World Bank. Kent Lia. (2016) ‘After the Truth Commission: Gender and Citizenship in Timor-Leste’, Human Rights Review, 17(1): 51–70. Kent Lia and Joanne Wallis. (2014) ‘Timor-Leste’s Veterans’ Pensions Scheme: Who Are the ­Beneficiaries and Who Is Missing Out?’ SSGM In-Brief 2014/3: 1–2. Kent Lia and Naomi Kinsella. (2015) ‘A Luta Kontinua (The Struggle Continues): The Marginalization of East Timorese Women within the Veterans’ Valorization Scheme’, International Feminist Journal of Politics, 17(3): 473–494. Kings College London. (2003) A Review of Peace Operations: A Case for Change, East Timor. London: Kings College. La’o Hamutuk. (2013) Presentation: The National Impact of Benefits for Former Combatants, Available at www.laohamutuk.org/econ/pension/VetPension6Mar2013en.pdf (accessed 28 November 2017). La’o Hamtuk. (2017) General State Budget 2017. www.laohamutuk.org/econ/OGE17/16OGE17.­ htm#docs (accessed April 2 2018). Leach Michael. (2017) Nation-Building and National Identity in Timor-Leste. London and New York: Routledge. Martins Vasco. (2017) ‘Politics of Power and Hierarchies of Citizenship in Angola’, Citizenship Studies, 21(1): 100–115. McEwen Cheryl. (2005) ‘New Spaces of Citizenship? Rethinking Gendered Participation and ­Empowerment in South Africa’, Political Geography, 24: 969–991. Metsola Lalli. (2006) ‘“Reintegration” of Ex-Combatants and Former Fighters: A Lens into State Formation and Citizenship in Namibia’, Third World Quarterly, 27(6): 1119–1135. Metsola Lalli. (2010) ‘The Struggle Continues? The Spectre of Liberation, Memory Politics and “War Veterans” in Namibia’, Development and Change, 41(4): 589–613. Muggah Robert and Chris O’Donnell. (2015) ‘Next Generation Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration’, Stability; International Journal of Security and Disarmament, 4(1): 1–12, Available at www.stabilityjournal.org/articles/10.5334/sta.fs/ (accessed 29 November 2017). Myrttinen Henri. (2014) ‘Claiming the Dead, Defining the Nation: Contested Narratives of the Independence Struggle in Post-Conflict Timor-Leste’, In Governing the Dead: Sovereignty and the Politics of Dead Bodies, F. Stepputat (ed.), pp. 95–113, Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.

195

Lia Kent Nagel Joane. (1998) ‘Masculinity and Nationalism: Gender and Sexuality in the Making of Nations’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 21(2): 242–269. Niner Sara. (2013) ‘Bisoi: A Veteran of Timor-Leste’s Independence Movement’, In Women in Southeast Asian Nationalist Movements, S. Blackburn and H. Ting (eds), pp. 226–249, Singapore: NUS Press. Ong Aihwa. (2003) ‘Buddha Is Hiding: Refugees, Citizenship and the New America’, California Series in Public Anthropology. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ottendorfer Eva. (2013) ‘Contesting International Norms of Transitional Justice: The Case of ­Timor-Leste’, International Journal of Conflict and Violence, 7(1): 23–35. Pouligny Béatrice. (2004) The Politics and Anti-Politics of Contemporary “Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration” Programs. Geneva: Programme for Strategic and International Security Studies. ­Available at www.operationspaix.net/DATA/DOCUMENT/5772~v~Les_anciens_combattants_d_aujourd_ hui__Desarmement_Demobilisation_et_Reinsertion.pdf (accessed 28 November 2017). RDTL (Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste). (2002) The Constitution of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste. Dili: Constituent Assembly of Timor-Leste. Roll Kate. (2014a) Inventing the Veteran, Imagining the State: Post-Conflict Reintegration and State Consolidation in Timor-Leste, 1999–2012, Unpublished PhD thesis, Oxford: Oxford University. Roll, Kate. (2014b) ‘Encountering Resistance: Qualitative Insights from the Quantitative Sampling of Ex-Combatants in Timor-Leste’, PS: Political Science and Politics, 47(2): 485–489. Rothschild Amy. (2015) ‘Democratization of Perpetration: Human Rights, Transitional Justice and Memories of Resistance in Post-Conflict Timor-Leste’, Conflict and Society: Advances in Research, 1: 92–108. Scambary James. (2015) ‘In Search of White Elephants: The Political Economy of Resource Income Expenditure in East Timor’, Critical Asian Studies, 47(2): 283–308. Sriram Chandra Lekha and Johanna Herman. (2009) ‘DDR and Transitional Justice: Bridging the Divide? Conflict, Security and Development, 9(4): 455–474. Wale Kim. (2016) South Africa’s Struggle to Remember: Contested Memories of Squatter Resistance in the Western Cape. Abingdon: Taylor and Francis. World Bank. (2008) ‘Defining Heroes: Key Lessons from the Creation of Veterans Policy in TimorLeste’, Report No 45458-TP, Washington: The World Bank.

196

15 Well-known and little understood Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste Janina Pawelz Introduction Street fights involving male youths are a long-standing global phenomenon. In Timor-Leste, rival martial arts groups (MAGs) are commonly linked to youth violence. They gained prominence during discussions on post-conflict challenges and destabilising factors that threaten the security and peace of the young nation. In mid-2013, the government of Timor-Leste banned three MAGs perceived to be threatening ‘public order and social harmony’ (Council of Ministers 2013). MAGs claim to have been scapegoated and their activities poorly understood. Despite the long history and broad membership of such groups throughout society, the image of the violent troublemaker prevails and little is known beyond this perception. This chapter provides some unique insights into the internal organisation, philosophical background, social engagement, and political nexus of MAGs. The findings help to comprehend the dynamics of attraction that MAGs exert over thousands of Timorese youth. The data are derived from a series of interviews with leading representatives of prominent MAGs and present their perspectives for a better understanding of what was once a favourite extracurricular activity for youthful Timorese. Violent clashes between rival MAGs became frequent in Timor-Leste’s independence era, often resulting in numerous injuries and deaths. As a former Dili-based politician has commented, ‘Now martial arts is synonymous with violence, with crime and with ­k illings’ (2014). During the political crisis of 2006, Timor-Leste’s MAGs became ­infamous for daily clashes between rival groups or with international security forces. These ­skirmishes included rock-throwing, the use of hand-made weapons, ransacking houses, and even a number of brutal murders. They were also accused of being mobs for hire based on ­r umours that MAGs were paid and manipulated by political leaders (Plan ­Timor-Leste 2007; TLAVA 2009). The 2006 crisis was a stark lesson in how quickly martial arts ­members could be mobilised and manipulated to resort to violence (Mischnik 2011). The International Crisis Group stated that ‘violence between rival martial arts groups remains the most persistent source of internal disturbance and a consistently deadly one’ (ICG 2013: 17, 34). Similarly, MAG specialist, James Scambary (2013: 211) has commented that ‘violence among opposing martial arts groups (MAGs) has continued to present substantial security challenges in Timor-Leste.’ 197

Janina Pawelz

Violent clashes usually involve street fights between rival groups, damage to houses, and the use of low-technology weapons such as machetes and knives, rocks, and the so-called rama ambon, rather than firearms. Rama ambon are crude darts fired with rubber slingshots designed to maim and inflict serious injuries. They were widely used during the 2006 communal conflicts and have continued to be deployed in times of unrest. Incidents like this reinforce the negative image of MAGs in Timor-Leste. In a survey conducted by Jütersonke et al. (2010: 45), youth and martial arts activity was named as the main source of urban violence and was said to have a great negative impact on the community. The Timorese government shares this perspective. The new and comprehensive national youth policy Timor-Leste (2016) mentions ‘most at-risk youth’ as one of the priority target groups and links violence and crime to MAGs. The national government has tended to address the issue of martial arts through repression and control. As early as 2008, the government of Timor-Leste passed a law regulating the practice of martial arts in Timor-Leste sporting organisations (Law No. 10/2008 ‘Lei Arte Marsiais – Martial Arts Law’). The opening preamble begins with a supporting statement: The practice of martial arts activities in Timor-Leste is of social and cultural importance for the population, especially among the young people, and its teaching also is a means of transmitting values and fundamental principles of conducts and characters of its practitioners and fans. (Government of Timor-Leste 2008) But it then draws attention to the ‘dangerous nature of some of the techniques used in the practice of Martial Arts’ and to an increase in violence and criminality (Government of Timor-Leste 2008). As part of the legislation, a regulatory Commission of Martial Arts was established to supervise the activities of the centres, clubs, or schools in the teaching, learning, and exercise of martial arts physical activities (Komisaun Reguladora Artes Marsiais nian – KRAM). In late 2011, the Council of Ministers approved a temporary ban on the practice and training of martial arts. A permanent ban followed in July 2013. A further resolution, the Council of Ministers (Resolution No. 16/2013: Extinction of Martial Arts Groups), decided on ‘the extinction1 of the groups designated by PSHT, KORK, and KERAK SAKTI [sic]’ as well as a number of other measures designed to restore public order and social harmony, which was threatened by the actions committed by these groups’ (Council of Ministers 2013). This resolution is commonly referred to as the ‘ban of martial arts groups’ and refers specifically to the groups such as Persaudaraan Setia Hati Terate (PSHT), Ikatan Kera Sakti (IKS), and Kmanek Oan Rai Klaran (KORK).2 The phenomenon of MAGs in Timor-Leste is a highly politicised issue and mostly discussed through the lens of security. There is a variety of perspectives informed by political standpoints, fear and despair of victims and regular citizens, even claims of unfair persecution by martial arts members themselves. In this chapter, I argue that whilst the issue of youth violence is a pressing one, especially in the post-conflict environment of Timor-Leste, grasping the phenomenon of martial arts in Timor-Leste must begin with an acknowledgement that the membership and activities of these organisations is diverse and should not be treated as a single-order issue. A number of the MAGs have their origins during the period of Indonesian occupation, others have been formed during the independence period. Membership includes old, young, male, female, educated, and unschooled members who all stress the physical and philosophical aspects of these groups. Against this backdrop of thousands 198

Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste

of members, only a small percentage of the membership is actively involved in violence and they are predominantly disaffected young males who participate in street clashes and destructive behaviour. In this chapter, I suggest that more attention should be paid to the former clandestine operations of the MAGs and to the implications of their current engagement with contemporary politics. Insights into these aspects of MAG practice is drawn from a range of interviews with representatives of the groups themselves, all of whom are keen to present a more positive image of their organisations in response to the mainstream negative portrayals. They provide detailed accounts of their internal organisation and philosophical foundations along with insights into the potential perils of the bonds of loyalty and their problematic affiliation with policing.

Critical voices A number of researchers, representatives of local and international n ­ on-governmental organisations (NGOs), religious institutions, and martial arts members themselves have criticised the repressive attempts to control martial arts violence. In most cases of ­m artial-arts-related violence, it is argued that they are triggered by family disputes, unresolved neighbour issues, land disputes, personal discrepancies, or drunkenness at parties. In other words, the triggers of clashes are not limited to martial arts rivalries per se, even though the perpetrators are members of these groups. Although it has become common to lay the blame for violent incidents on youth and MAGs, according to Jütersonke et al. (2010: 49), ‘their real contribution to violence remains limited and a far cry from what media headlines insist.’ Local NGO, Belun (2014: 13) blames the media, arguing that it ‘has focused predominantly on reporting negative aspects’ of MAGs, which has contributed to the ‘predominant (mis)perception that MAOs [martial arts organisations] do not have a legitimate role as sporting organisations.’ Belun has also claimed that MAGs have been ‘unfairly tarnished’ and that their positive contribution to the community and the state has not being recognised (2014: 12). These findings support Henri Myrttinen’s (2010: 304) point that MAGs in Timor-Leste have been labelled ‘social outcasts, [and] as young, “stupid,” economically marginalized, frustrated men prone to alcohol abuse and violence’ and that this has led to a feeling of ‘unfair scapegoating by the rest of society’ amongst certain sections of Timorese youth. In my own interviews with martial arts leaders and members, many claim that they represented peaceful sporting organisations and had been wrongfully stigmatised as instigators of violence. People kill each other, people chop each other to death, why is that? Because of land ownership issues, or about women; that’s not about martial arts! It’s because people get drunk, and attack each other; that’s not martial arts! (Interview with Kera Sakti leader, Liquica district, 13 October 2014) The perception of MAGs as violent troublemakers has manifested into a stigmatisation of the groups. One NGO activist argued that the media portrayal influences people’s opinions: If you ask people if they agree to ban the martial arts groups, they say “yeah” because the image that they portrayed in the newspaper and media is that martial arts is a bad thing. (Interview with NGO activist, Dili, 8 October 2014) 199

Janina Pawelz

Listening to the martial arts members presents a different perspective on how they are portrayed by the public, media, and government agencies. A young leader from Comoro argued that those people who judge their MAGs do not have a basis for argument because they do not know about the positive principles of the groups: Almost all people in Timor say that SH Terate [PSHT] is not good. But they are never with us; they never listen to our principles. If they came, if they listened, then they would know that this isn’t an organisation that attacks people! (Interview with PSHT leader, Dili, 10 November 2014) Members of MAGs have frequently pointed out that they have the right to be recognised as citizens and individuals and not just as members of MAGs. They underlined that the MAGs are not related to the violent incidents when, for instance, the perpetrators don’t wear martial arts uniforms during the act of violence. When I wear our symbols, our uniform, then I am indeed from the organisation. But if not, I am a civilian! (Interview with PSHT leader, Ermera district, 1 November 2014) A leader of PSHT criticised the fact that his organisation has been painted with a broad brush. He argued that his group does not tolerate criminals and that they should be punished as individuals. I don’t accept that people claim that SH’s [PSHT] members are criminals! SH doesn’t commit crimes, because it’s an organisation. People commit crimes! And I say: we don’t tolerate criminals! Take them to court, take them to prison! (Interview with PSHT top leader, Dili, 8 December 2014) Most of the martial arts members and leaders I interviewed pointed out that the group is not responsible for the actions of an individual. They suggested that triggers of violence were often unrelated to martial arts and that perpetrators were not acting in the name of the group, but as a ‘private’ person as they don’t display martial arts symbols during their fights. This is a common ploy to shift responsibility and the narrative lacks an important element, namely, the hegemonic organisational framework of the groups themselves, which established the landscape of friends and foes. Group members have usually known each other for years. They meet regularly and have grown ‘inseparable bonds’ with strong group identity, mutual loyalty, and brotherhood. A ban imposed on the organisation will not affect these bonds according to its leadership and recent history has shown that despite controls on their practice, martial arts activity continues underground. The groups operate secretly and meet for night-time training. As martial arts uniforms are also banned, members reveal their membership covertly by wearing T-shirts, wristbands, or necklaces displaying distinctive martial art symbols or colours. Members of the PSHT, for example, commonly wear a heart insignia – a white heart with a red outline framed by sun-ray-like stripes – as a symbol of their martial art affiliation. Underneath the heart is a lotus flower framed by machetes and knives. A simplified version of the emblem is the white heart with a red outline and white stripes, commonly printed on T-shirts on the left where the human heart is located. Some PSHT members have a heart-shaped tattoo on the left side of their chests. The number 1922 (the founding year of PSHT in Indonesia) is also commonly used to make reference 200

Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste

to PSHT. Kera Sakti (IKS), which means holy monkey, uses an emblem displaying a person and a monkey in a fighting position. The colours they use are red, black, and yellow whilst KORK members can be identified by their white, red, and yellow wristband, for instance. A human rights activist pointed out that the members of the banned groups perceive the regulatory ban as unjust. They do not respect the resolution and continue practicing because ‘they don’t understand why they should stop! That is a dangerous thing’ (Interview with NGO worker, Dili, 5 December 2014).

A history of martial arts in Timor-Leste The regulatory commission, KRAM lists a total of 14 MAGs in Timor-Leste, three of which were banned by the government resolution in 2013. The groups that continue to practice l­egally are Pajajaran, Perisai Diri, Seruling Dewata, Wushu (formerly Kungfu M ­ aster) ­Rajawalih ­Putih, THS-THM, and groups practicing Kempo, Karate and Taekwondo, Shindo, and ­A ikido. Banned groups are PSHT, IKS, and KORK. PSHT is the largest and most influential MAG with a total of 35,000 members in all 13 districts by their own account (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014). IKS reportedly has 18,000 members and KORK 12,000 members. KORK is pronounced ‘korka’ and is well known for having ­developed its own alphabet and writing system (Communication with KORK member, Dili, 15 October 2016). MAGs are found in all 13 districts of the country, with branches down to the village level. The common ground for MAGs is the promotion of a particular form of sports. Martial arts skills do not come into play during street fights with rival groups, even though the ­Timorese style of pencak silat has been described as ‘aggressive’ and ‘confrontational’ and far from self-defence (Interview with Timorese scholar, Dili, 7 October 2014). The origins of martial arts in Timor-Leste can be traced to the practice of hafetu, a traditional Timorese sport that teaches how to kick. During Portuguese rule, the kicking style was referred to as jogu livre. It was a kind of martial art that had few followers and was practiced discretely (NGO activist, Dili, 8 October 2014). Jogu livre was an original Timorese tradition and encompassed ‘magical’ rituals such as chewing betel nut and dahur, a traditional circle dancing and singing (Interview with member of 9-9, Dili, 17 October 2014). The group PSHT was formed in Indonesia and was introduced to Timor by the Indonesian armed forces, Kopassus, in 1983, just like their rival group IKS (Interview with PSHT leader, Dili, 10 November 2014). Only the KORK group is originally from Timor (Ainaro district) and it emerged in 1982 (Communication with KORK member, Dili, 15 October 2016). There are different views on the MAGs’ objectives and their contribution to independence. The Indonesian armed forces introduced MAGs for three reasons: first, to train young people in a combat style sports to be able to fight without weapons; second, to deter unity amongst Timorese youth who were supporting independence; and third, to retrieve information about FALINTIL3 resistance activities via martial arts members (Interview with NGO worker, Dili, 31 November 2014). A popular common narrative is that this did not work out as planned and that the MAGs began to support the independence movement as part of the broader popularity of clandestine resistance. PSHT and IKS reportedly created secretly operating parallel structures to support the independence movement. For example, PSHT created Fuan Domin (Tetun: ‘Loving Heart’) in 1988–1989. Fuan Domin was a secretly operating political wing of PSHT whose aim was ‘to wage war against Indonesia’ (Interview with Fuan Domin leader, Dili, 6 October 2014). IKS created a similar secret clandestine group named The Youth Association for Supporting Development (Assosiasaun Joventude Apoiu Dezinvolvimentu). Political activity was strictly forbidden during Indonesian 201

Janina Pawelz

occupation, and if the Indonesian soldiers had found out about the political activity of Fuan Domin, ‘we would all be dead’ (Interview with Fuan Domin leader, Dili, 6 October 2014). According to the Fuan Domin narrative, its actions have significantly contributed to the country’s liberation: Fuan Domin was a secret organisation inside PSHT. They worked together with those who were in the jungle, the FALINTIL; they worked together, but the Indonesians didn’t know. This is how the war could be won. It was a strategy. (Interview with Fuan Domin leader, Dili, 6 October 2014) Fuan Domin supported FALINTIL by bringing goods to them, supplying them with food, contributing financially, and organising pro-independence demonstrations (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014). The MAGs’ organisational structure and routine practices were used for clandestine activities and the branches were purposefully set up all over the country with night-time training used to mobilise independence supporters (Interview with NGO activist, Dili, 8 October 2014). NGO Belun states that MAGs could be seen as ‘clandestine heroes of the resistance struggle in Timor-Leste, yet their notoriety since independence has grown’ after violent incidents and inter-group rivalries became frequent (2014: 5). The MAG’s involvement in liberation politics remains unknown, unrecognised, forgotten, or unverified, but cautious scepticism is advised when assessing claims of having supported the fight for independence. In the post-independence era, many stakeholders have accommodated themselves with the circumstances and it is strategically advantageous to position oneself to the ‘winning side’ of the war. Especially when the proclaimed contribution to independence is maintained as top secret, it is difficult to assess the validity of the claims.

Internal organisation The internal organisational structure of the MAGs is hierarchical and very distinctive. There are clear positions, roles, and tasks and defined regulations about how to move up the group’s internal hierarchy. This hierarchy is not necessarily determined by age, but by the position within the groups’ constituent structures. Introduced by the Indonesian military, the structure of the MAGs mirrors the territorial structure of the civil administration from a national down to the sub-village level. For example, PSHT’s national leadership structure is comprised of a top leader, followed by an elected secretary general and three additional high-ranking leaders. Below the top leadership level are the district coordinators. Each of the 13 districts in Timor-Leste has a district coordinator. Each district is divided into s­ ub-districts, headed by the sub-district coordinator. Each sub-district is then divided into a fluctuating number of ranting, the smallest organisational unit, with approximately 20–30 members and one ranting leader/coordinator (Interview with PSHT contender, Dili, 4 October 2014). The number of sub-districts and ranting varies from district to district depending on the size of the district and the popularity of martial arts amongst its residents. The group as a whole is referred to as a warga, which is a Javanese term that refers to an extended family or a neighbourhood. Typical too for MAGs is the hierarchical belt structure. PSHT has several belt levels and it takes years of practice and numerous exams to pass from one level to another. New members enter as learners (siswa) on the lowest level, referred to as polos or metan. After 6–12 months of training, the next level orange ( jambu) can be entered. The next level, achieved after a further year of training, is green (hijau), followed by small white (mutin ki’ik). The highest 202

Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste

level of attainment is the ‘great white’ (mutin bo’ot), which can be reached after two to four years of training. Only those individuals who pass the highest level are considered to be full members. Contenders must pass physical tests and written exams covering moral values and the group’s philosophy, history, and objectives in order to climb the ranks of the organisation (Interview with PSHT top leader, Dili, 8 December 2014). After graduation, they become full members of the warga. In order for the graduate to become a full member of the warga, high-ranking PSHT teachers from Indonesia are brought to Timor-Leste to conduct the examinations. Since the ban on PSHT, however, contenders have frequently been caught at the Timorese-Indonesian border on their way to take part in the graduation ceremonies. The travel expenses for the Indonesian examiners, as well as the training material and material for the spiritual parts of the examination, costs approximately US$125 per person and must be borne by the contenders (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014). After covering the expenses of the graduation, the remaining money is saved for the group’s social activities and financial support for members in need. Spiritual material includes a live cockerel in a basket. There is another level of hierarchy within the warga, which separates initiates into ­levels (tingkat). Currently, there are only four people in Timor-Leste who have reached the ­second-highest level (tingkat dua/rua). These high-ranking leaders are thought to be equipped with magical skills, known as talis. These skills include the ability to move objects or switch lights off or on with the power of the mind (Interview with PSHT top leader, Dili, 8 December 2014). The internal organisational structure of IKS is also hierarchical. The highest position in the organisation is the ketua umum,4 the general head or p­ resident. This position is supported by four important positions: the head of technical issues (ketua teknik); the head of moral issues (ketua moral); and the head of administration (ketua ­administrasi), a position currently held by two people. The ketua kerohanian is a s­ piritual person, but not in a religious sense but on IKS’s own terms (Interview with members of Kera Sakti, Dili, 25 October 2014). IKS has a belt system similar to PSHT, but uses different colours. ­Beginners enter on the first level, metan (black), and continue to the second level, kinur (yellow). ­A fter passing a mental test, they proceed to the third level, biru (blue). The highest level of the IKS belt system is mean (red), which is held by directors and teachers after one or two years of practice. The geographic origin and spiritual ‘Mecca’ of both IKS and PSHT is in Madiun, Java, Indonesia. Timorese contenders travel to Madium to take their exams or to buy uniforms and belts (Interviews with members of Kera Sakti, Dili, 25 October 2014). Indonesian terms are used because PSHT and IKS are originally Indonesian MAGs and when they were introduced in the 1980s, Bahasa Indonesia was the propagated language of communication in occupied Timor. The continuous use of Indonesian terms indicates the roots and origin of the groups as well as a persistent link to Indonesia. The prohibition of the groups in Timor-Leste has ironically contributed to stronger ties with the original Indonesian martial art community as Timorese initiates cross the border to Indonesia to take their exams and stage their graduation ceremonies.

Philosophy, values, and social networks The MAGs discussed here are more than just physical exercise groups. They also seek to inculcate and extend philosophies of mutual respect, anti-discrimination, and spirituality according to their leading advocates. Their doctrines and rules are available in the form of books, which makes them easy to pass on. The doctrine encompasses a dogmatic set of commandments, such as not to kill, not to use violence, and not to commit crimes, as well 203

Janina Pawelz

as how to respect and help one another. They claim to provide knowledge about moral values and important life aspects such as human rights, democracy, and mutual respect. A top PSHT leader stated, We help one another in solidarity. (…) We assist distressed people…we don’t just teach punching and kicking each other; we also teach about how to find the right path and how to empower one another. (PSHT leader, Dili, 8 December 2014) The moral doctrine is primarily about respecting one’s own life as well as that of other ­people. The core values are kesenian (art), olahraga (physical training), belahdiri ­(self-defence), ­persaudaraan (brotherhood), kerohanian (spirituality), and kebatinan (mysticism). The ­Indonesian term persaudaraan and the corresponding Tetum term maun-alin (siblings) ­translate into the value of ‘brotherhood,’ which refers to both ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters.’ The concept of p­ ersaudaraan is based on the principles of non-discrimination in terms of race, class, physical appearance, or origin. Persaudaraan is brotherhood, which means we don’t look at where the people come from; we don’t discriminate against them. If a person has white skin or black skin, is poor or rich, ugly or beautiful, we consider them all as human beings. (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014) Our primary objective is persaudaraan, maun-alin; that means we shall not be angry with each other and we shall not discriminate against each other. We shall not ask, “where are you from?” because we are all one. (Interview with PSHT leader, Ermera district, 1 November 2014) Persaudaraan describes the loyalty between members and refers to a concept of mutual help, expressed as gotong royong. This concept of mutual help facilitates the system of social security and assistance based on a lifelong commitment and loyalty. Full members of MAGs must swear an oath of loyalty, known as a juramentu (a binding oath). Those who have become a full member of the warga are an inseparable bond, like brothers and sisters; they look out for each other. We have something that we call juramentu, which is a concept that you can’t exit…until death. (Interview with PSHT top leader, Dili, 8 December 2014) The solidarity is very strong amongst members of martial arts and based on the juramentu – the oath of obedience – promising that ‘they will always stick together’ (Interview with journalist, Dili, 9–10 December 2014). The role of loyalty and solidarity within their networks and their values of unity and, what they referred to as love, or domin – a feeling of togetherness – is very important. Identity and loyalty are strong and membership is usually a commitment for a lifetime. Even after the prohibition, the relationship between the members continues. The organisation can be closed down, but the relationship between the members can never be destroyed. When we die, only God can divide us. (Interview with PSHT leader, Dili, 10 November 2014) 204

Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste

Loyalty includes defending their fellow members in case of attack. Group members might become involved in a confrontation on behalf of their friends without questioning the circumstances. If one of the members of my group got attacked, then I have to defend. If one sick, then everybody is sick. But this might actually lead to something negative: “Okay, my brother got attacked; for what reason I don't care, but I will join them to do a contra act [revenge].” (NGO activist, Dili, 8 October 2014) The PSHT doctrine encompasses three levels of relationship. The first is a social relationship and describes the interaction between persons (relasaun entre ema ho ema). It thus encompasses moral values such as respecting parents, brothers, sisters, and respecting the rule of law in the country, and respecting humans without discrimination based on their skin colour, financial wealth, origin, or physical traits of beauty. The second level of the PSHT doctrine describes the relationship between persons and the nature (relasaun entre ema ho natureza). Here, the focus is on teaching about holy places and sacred plants and trees. Certain places are considered lulik (sacred) and it is not allowed to (slash and) burn these areas or chop sacred plants and trees. In Timor-Leste, many aspects of nature, houses, and pastures are considered lulik. The third level of the PSHT moral doctrine is the relationship between people and God (relasaun entre ema ho Maromak). Maromak is the divinity that is considered as the source of creation across the whole of Timor, not just within martial arts. The PSHT moral doctrine is passed on to the younger generation and designated PSHT teachers preach about good moral behaviour which will influences their destiny in the afterlife, an idea with close parallels to the concept of karma. In the relationship between persons and God, we teach our members that their ­present-day behaviour will impact their life after death, and that’s why they have to do good and do good things now. When you kill somebody now, other people will kill your offspring or you in return. (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014) The moral concept of brotherhood is expressed in practice. MAGs in Timor-Leste have ­established networks of mutual help and assistance for group members and their relatives. This help includes financial and physical support and the provision of protection. The social ­security network includes financial distributions of resources to members to repair their houses and to help fund weddings and funerals. There is also assistance for victims of natural disasters and for the work of the church (Interviews with members of Kera Sakti, Dili, 25 October 2014; Interview with PSHT leader, Liquica district, 13 October 2014). This is an especially important aspect with regard to weddings, as the tradition of barlake, means that bridewealth demands can be high. Repairing and building houses and helping victims of natural d­ isasters also include help with labour. The provision of assistance and protection for community ­members and fellow members of the MAGs is one of the major reasons why young people join. If I join a group and if I have a problem – for example, I want to build a house – I can say to my friends, “Help me!” Or if I have a problem when my motorbike breaks down on the street, my friends can come and help me. If I get attacked by some people, I can call them. (Interview with PSHT contender, Dili, 4 October 2014) 205

Janina Pawelz

Entire villages can benefit from the social welfare and mutual support. MAGs also provide health care to physically or mentally sick people, including ‘casting out bad spirits and demons’ (Interview with members of Kera Sakti, Dili, 25 October 2014). The belief in evil spirits is widespread in Timor-Leste and the conduct of exorcism is considered a useful asset: ‘If something evil happens, we from Kera Sakti can assist to fix the problem’ (Interview with members of Kera Sakti, Dili, 25 October 2014). The social activities are, for example, you and I are not family related, but we are in one organisation. Then you become a sibling to us, a good friend, and when there is some work to do at your house, like building a shelter or building a house, then you can invite me and you can invite other friends to come to help you. Maybe your father is sick, or your mother is sick, then you can invite them for their support. (Interview with Kera Sakti leader, Liquica district, 13 October 2014) MAGs claim to be engaged in cleaning up for holidays, picking up garbage, planting saplings, and organising sporting competitions as social activities. In addition to financial assistance, they provide knowledge about moral values and important social protections such as human rights, democracy, and mutual respect in ‘simple, understandable words’ (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014). These self-proclaimed humanitarian aspects of MAGs raise the question if true, as to why young people seek to join up. To understand the dynamics of attraction that draws young people into violence-prone groups, it is necessary to acknowledge the pull factors and specific motivations that members articulate. The perception of fellow group members as ‘brothers’ constituting an extended family (‘brotherhood’), based on social bonds of friendship and blind loyalty, or the feeling of belonging to a greater entity, are common pull factors that scholars identify when assessing the phenomenon of youth violence (Esser and Dominikowski 1993; Evrigenis 2010; McEvoy-Levy 2010; Thrasher 1927). Even the experience of violence and rivalry contributes to the consolidation of group processes and the feeling of ‘us’ (‘in-group’) and ‘them’ (‘out-group’), thus offering a refuge and guiding points of reference for identity-seeking youth albeit from a masculine perspective.

The perils of loyalty The combination of strong support networks, loyalty, and hierarchical organisation can be a compromising mix of conflict dynamics. Blind obedience based on loyalty to fellow group members can contribute to an escalation of conflict, as many young men are loyal to their fellow group members and will fight side by side if they are attacked. This can contribute to an escalation of violent conflict. Furthermore, the overlap of martial arts and police identities has led to problems in the past, as the martial arts identity was stronger than the loyalty to the police force. The overlap of the police force and MAGs impairs the police’s impartiality and therefore the effectiveness of law enforcement. The large percentage of MAG members in the police force has also led to various problems, such as informing fellow martial arts members about a planned raid, or taking sides during street fights, leading to arbitrary arrests, and hence ineffectively solving community problems. When then Prime Minister Xanana Gusmão ordered members of the police (PNTL) to quit their MAGs in January 2014, 993 members (more specifically, 654 from PSHT, 243 from KORK, and 96 from IKS) declared their loyalty to the police force by officially surrendering their martial arts uniforms ( Jornal Nacional Diário 2014). The surrender of uniforms and pledging of allegiance to the state was 206

Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste

an official act of dealing with the issue of martial arts-police nexus. However, quitting the MAG is impossible, as members had previously sworn a juramentu of lifelong commitment to their MAG. Loyalty, identity, and hierarchy can be misused for political purposes. First, MAGs have thousands of members who are eligible to vote. Furthermore, the members of MAGs have family members who are also eligible to vote. Consequently, the number of potential supporters increases significantly. In the case of PSHT, the total number of members, according to their own report, is 35,000, but a high-ranking PSHT leader claims that they could exert political influence over 70,000 people if members’ spouses or close family members were counted as well (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014). The leaders of political parties always contact me saying, “support us.” They call me on the phone and ask, but I say “no, we are martial arts sports, we don’t make politics.” (Interview with secretary general of PSHT, Dili, 16 October 2014) Second, the hierarchical structure of command, the loyalty to the group, and the obedience to their leaders make it relatively easy to influence voting behaviour. MAGs have a hierarchical structure of command that ensures that the members follow their leaders’ voting ‘recommendations’ and an organisational network to share information. This structure can easily be used to generate political support: When my leader “xefi” wants us to join a political party … I have to follow! I have to follow my leader! (…) If my leader wants us to join this party, I have to follow! (Interview with PSHT contender, Dili, 4 October 2014) An example for the political nexus is the link between KORK and the political party Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan (KHUNTO). In the 2012 elections, KHUNTO participated for the first time and missed the 3% threshold by 150 votes only (Pawelz 2015). In the 2017 elections, KHUNTO increased its vote share to 6.43% of the votes. The party tipped the scales when it defected from a deal with the FRETILIN, which eventually lead to the collapse of the FRETILIN government and new elections. In the new elections in 2018, KHUNTO formed an alliance with the National Congress of the Timorese Reconstruction and the Popular Liberation Party, called the Aliança para Mundança e Progresso, which gained 49.6% of the votes. Whilst other parties have to establish structures in each district, mobilise supporters, and need to organise campaign events, MAGs have this structure in place and ‘don’t need to campaign, they meet three times a week anyway’ (Interview with NGO activist, Dili, 5 December 2014). To this end, MAG mobilise a potential ‘army’ of voters. The leaders of the MAGs can also profit from their electoral muscle with rewards of political positions or financial gain. Whilst the bulk of members do not profit from the patronage system, some definitely do.

Conclusion In Timor-Leste, rival MAGs are prominent in the debate on violence and insecurity due to their engagement in street clashes, rock-throwing, ransacking houses, and even a number of brutal murders. Their collective image as violent troublemakers prevails and little is known beyond this negative perception. The banning of a number of controversial groups aimed to 207

Janina Pawelz

restore ‘public order and social harmony, which are threatened by the actions committed by these groups’ (Council of Ministers 2013). However, MAGs in Timor-Leste feel strongly that they have become scapegoats and that their activities widely misunderstood. Most importantly, they perceive the ban as dismissive of the potentially positive role that MAGs could play in society in terms of reaching and teaching neglected young people. This chapter has given a voice to these sentiments by revealing the internal organisation and belt systems of MAGs, their moral values and philosophies of anti-discrimination, social security network, and their concept of brotherhood (persaudaraan). These philosophical aspects define the basic rules according to which the members live. The social role of MAGs encompasses a declared social welfare network and a system of mutual assistance, which includes financial and physical support. The intense loyalty amongst members manifests this network and contributes to the identity of the group. The network of solidarity is tightly knit around the group members and their families. This chapter has also summarised the pitfalls of loyalty, hierarchy, and identity. The aspect of blind allegiance based on loyalty is often raised as a contributing factor to the escalation of violent conflicts as members get involved in violent confrontation on behalf of their friends without questioning the causes or consequences. The overlap of martial arts and police identities has led to inefficiencies in law enforcement and conflicts of interest due to impaired impartiality and low loyalty to the state. The power of the MAGs is based on their high numbers of membership, enhanced by a hierarchical organisation and blind loyalty to superiors. This makes them a major source of political influence and mobilisation to either support or undermine the state. During election campaigns in particular, the threat of political violence increases as do the possibilities for political manipulation and the deployment of MAGs for purposes of intimidation and disruption. The high numbers of loyal members of these groups and their capacity for political mobilisation means that MAGs are often caught up in networks of political patronage. Consequently, there is a tendency to miss the forest for the trees, as the greatest danger posed by MAGs is perhaps not to be found as perpetrators of violence on the streets, but in the possibilities for collusion and manipulation of democratic government by shadowy and powerful political figures.

Notes 1 The use of the word “extinction,” rather than banning or prohibiting, suggests that the government sought to make it clear that these groups would be forthwith, “non-existent” with no chance of being recognised. 2 The meanings of the group names are as follows: PSHT/The Faithful Brotherhood of the Lotus Heart; IKS/The Bond of the Sacred Monkey; KORK/Wise Children of the Land. 3 Forças Armadas de Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste. 4 Ketua is an Indonesian term for chairperson.

References Belun. (2014). ‘Dynamics of Martial Arts Related Conflict and Violence in Timor-Leste.’ Research Report. Council of Ministers. (2013). ‘Extraordinary Meeting of the Council of Ministers on July 2, 2013.’ Press Release. Dili, Timor-Leste: V Constitutional Government. http://timor-leste.gov. tl/?p=8485&lang=en (accessed 30 June 2016). Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste, State Secretary of Youth and Sports. (2016). ‘National Youth Policy.’

208

Martial arts groups in Timor-Leste Esser, Johannes, and Thomas Dominikowski. (1993). Die Lust an der Gewalttätigkeit bei Jugendlichen: Krisenprofile, Ursachen, Handlungsorientierungen für die Jugendarbeit. Frankfurt am Main: ISS. Evrigenis, Ioannis D. (2010). Fear of Enemies and Collective Action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Government of Timor-Leste. (2008). Lei Ba Arte Marciais. No 10/2008. ICG. (2013). ‘Timor-Leste: Stability at What Cost?’ Asia Report 246. International Crisis Group. Jornal Nacional Diário. (2014). ‘Membrus PNTL 993 Entrega Atributu Artemarsiais.’ January 16. www. jndiario.com/2014/01/16/membrus-pntl-993-entrega-atributu-artemarsiais/ (accessed 30 June 2016). Jütersonke, Oliver, Ryan Murray, Edward Rees, and James Scambary. (2010). Urban Violence in an Urban Village: A Case Study of Dili, Timor-Leste, Robert Muggah (ed.). Geneva, Switzerland: Geneva Declaration Secretariat. McEvoy-Levy, Siobhán. (2010). ‘Die Rolle von Peer-Gruppen. Mehr als ein Ersatz für Familie und staatliche Institutionen?’ In Jugendliche in gewaltsamen Lebenswelten: Wege aus den Kreisläufen der ­G ewalt, Sabine Kurtenbach, Rüdiger Blumör, and Sebastian Huhn (eds.). Stiftung Entwicklung und Frieden. Baden-Baden: Nomos. Mischnik, Ruth. (2011). ‘Practice and Experience of Peace Fund’s Partners’ Projects in Timor-Leste. Hametin Democrasia No Igualidade (HDI).’ www.peacefund-timorleste.org/assets/Info%20 ­Initiatives%20for%20download/HDI_review.pdf (accessed 30 June 2016). Myrttinen, Henri. (2010). Histories of Violence, States of Denial. Militias, Martial Arts and Masculinity in Timor-Leste, Doctor of Philosophy in Conflict Resolution & Peace Studies, South Africa: University of Kwazulu-Natal. Pawelz, Janina. (2015). ‘Security, Violence, and Outlawed Martial Arts Groups in Timor-Leste’, Asian Journal of Peacebuilding, 3(1): 121–136. Plan Timor-Leste. (2007). Like Stepping Stones in the River: Youth Perspectives on the Crisis in Timor-Leste, Dili, Timor-Leste. Scambary, James. (2013). ‘Informal Security Groups and Social Movements’. In Politics of Timor-Leste: Democratic Consolidation after Intervention, Michael Leach and Damien Kingsbury, (eds.) pp. 197–199. New York: Cornell University Press. Thrasher, Frederic Milton. (1927). The Gang: A Study of 1,313 Gangs in Chicago. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Timor Leste Armed Violence Assessment. (2009). ‘Electoral Violence in Timor-Leste’. 3. Issue Brief. Small Arms Survey.

209

Cultural impacts

16 Culture as symbol Customary marriage practices under transformation in urban Timor-Leste Kelly Silva

This chapter addresses the ways in which customary marriage practices have been carried out and anxieties projected onto them in urban scenarios of postcolonial Timor-Leste. Based on extensive fieldwork, I argue that the negotiation of marriage practices is framed to meet ­people’s commitments to local and global institutions and their quest to be perceived as ­modern folk. To this end, a fundamental claim and strategy is to transform the material exchanges entailed in customary marriage practices into symbols as a specific type of sign (Pierce 1999). Another strategy is to ascribe marriage prestations to the gift regime of exchange. One assumes that tradition, customary practices, adat and usos e costumes are g­ overnment categories used in knowledge and governance policies for the purpose of creating a ­better-understood and disciplined ‘other.’ What has been glossed over as traditions or ­custom are features of local knowledge and social technologies whereby people simultaneously c­ reate and make sense of the world they live in and manage it for various purposes. As other sources of authority and resources, such as the state and the market, come forward to control social reproduction, customary practices are always reshaped in response to the various constraints imposed on them. Indeed, we might say that what we call custom has very ambiguous f­eatures: whereas historically they are very dynamic, there is an ideology that considers them immutable phenomena. It is also true, however, that the ideas about custom (lisan, adat and usos e costumes) have been internalised by those whose lives have been described in those very words. In using them, some people try to distinguish their specific lifestyle from that of others. Hence, today, these categories are both relational and interethnic. Customary marriage practices have been central elements in the politics of custom in Timor-Leste and in other Oceanic and South East Asian landscapes, both in colonial and postcolonial times ( Jolly and Thomas 1992; Silva and Simião 2012). Because they deeply challenge moral precepts of western cosmology – such as the incommensurability between persons and things (Appadurai 1986) and romantic love as the only accepted reason for marriage – these practices have been taken as markers of the irreducible difference between civilised and non-civilised peoples. Therefore, they provide strategic concepts to discuss the ways in which local knowledge has been reframed under the strong influence of expanding capitalism and westernised government practices. The form, meaning and purposes of marriage practices in Dili are deeply affected by features of urban scenario in which they are conducted. In this chapter, I shall first examine the 213

Kelly Silva

role of urban landscapes in colonial and postcolonial times in Timor-Leste, and the ideological ambiguities surrounding customary practices. I then discuss marriage formalities in Dili today and the expectations and commitments they entail including the moral implications of material exchanges in the making of proper persons and the social networks to which they belong. The section that follows discusses projects proposed by young people to change the nature of material marriage exchanges in Dili. The core of their projects is to convert valuables transacted in marriage into symbolic gifts and thereby changing their current status as indices of value. I shall then analyse another arena of controversy around marriage exchanges, namely, the dispute as to whether they constitute commodity or gift exchanges – as anthropology has glossed over that debate – and the effects these controversies have on matters of personal iden­ aterial marriage exchanges into tification.1 My final remarks maintain that transforming m symbols well suits the identity and economic projects of Dili residents. Converting marriage exchanges into symbols allows people to retain and invest more resources in personal goals other than the customary practices. Moreover, by perceiving the valuables exchanged as symbols of the incommensurable character of recognition, the shift facilitates inscription of these exchanges to a gift regime of exchange. Last but not least, maintaining customary marriage exchanges allows people to honour their commitments to local institutions.

Dili: a singular place and its ambiguities regarding customary practices Urban spaces the world over are places marked by a greater diversity of people and of phenomena related to modernity and the global expansion of capitalism (Mamdani 1998). Dili is no exception. Originally planned to host the administration of the Portuguese colonial state, Dili emerged as a colonial frontier, the project of a colonial town. As it grew and became the centre of political and economic activity, it was associated with the values of ‘civilisation’ – whether in the Portuguese or the Indonesian way – and with a western modernity as opposed to the supposed backwardness of the hills ( foho) (Silva 2012). As in many other places of late colonisation, Timor-Leste territorialities were conceived of along urban/rural, town/hinterland oppositions, a consequence of what Mamdani (1998) calls the ‘bifurcated state’. This model of bifurcation was applied throughout European colonial administrations in Africa and Asia and continued into postcolonial times. It constituted urban spaces the ideological locus of direct rule, positive law, religion, language, European sensibilities, and the individual (as the institutional normative subject), and opposed to rural spaces and wilderness – the hills of Timor-Leste – stamped as places for indirect rule, customary institutions, paganism, animism, and the babble of local dialects. Dili was thus imagined as a place where customary practices would not materialise because it was only conceived as a place for residents of the assimilated and civilised East Timorese. A hallmark of their membership was, amongst other things, that they had abandoned customary obligations and embraced modernity (Silva 2012). Naturally, the colonial reality in Dili was much more complex and less elitist than the bifurcated state project imagined. The colonial enterprise in reality depended on the exploitation of local people and the Portuguese administration was very fragile most of the time. Dili was also settled by ‘non-civilised’ East Timorese people and foreigners of assorted origins. As a result, customary institutions have always been present in the city and have played an important role in the dialectics of modernisation and colonial expansion (Ranck 1977). Furthermore, the 1975 Indonesian occupation and 2002 restoration of independence provoked new migratory waves into the city. Under Indonesian occupation, many ‘white’ and 214

Culture as symbol

‘civilised’ East Timorese who lived in Dili during Portuguese rule fled to Portugal, Australia and other countries, leaving urban spaces open to people who until then had never been ­eligible to occupy them, because, amongst other things, they had much stronger connections with local institutions. After 1999, Dili once again received large numbers of people from the hills and rural hinterland. In the words of Leach (2012: 4), ‘half of Dili’s population is composed of internal migrants, and most of this inward migration is recent.’ It is also worth noting two contemporary phenomena that influence the way people negotiate their relations with customary institutions in Dili today. Unlike the early colonial government projects, that required residents to be civilised (civilizados) and abandon their usos e costumes (customary institutions), nowadays Dili residents (like most of us) are stimulated to think of themselves as owning a culture, which is considered to be the source of their ­identity. The current processes of cultural objectification and their effect on subjectivation – the phenomena and categories by which we make sense of ourselves in and about the world – reveal a much more positive approach towards customary practices. Moreover, the restoration of independence reinforced belief in the agency of local forces which should be controlled via custom (Barnes 2010; Hicks 2007). Victory over gigantic ­Indonesia is o ­ ften attributed to the role of ancestors and other spiritual entities as guardians of people’s lives. From this viewpoint, independence is regarded as an achievement that can only be credited to the power of customary practices, in ways consistent with what ­Bovensiepen (2014) and ­McWilliam, Palmer and Shepherd (2014: 311) have identified in other regions of the ­country. Therefore, ­managing and performing customary rituals and procedures in postcolonial Dili became necessary to guarantee the proper flow of life (Fox 1980: 12). Concurrently, the restoration of independence also allowed many exiles branded as mestizos and civilised (civilisados) to return to Dili. They brought along highly valued skills to the labour market (such as proficiency in international and local languages) together with part of the colonial discourse on customary practices. As they resumed their political, economic and social leadership positions in society, their attitude towards customary institutions may have influenced the behaviour of newcomers or subaltern urbanites. I also note that the revival of customary practices in Dili has been limited by people desires to reinforce their membership and connections with western institutions and ideologies. Dili remains the economic centre of commodity exchange in Timor-Leste, where the retention of goods and access to western institutions play a fundamental role in social status and mobility. In fact, the role of consumerism has increased in the town day by day. Before that, people’s investments in customary rituals have been turned into a subject of state government (Silva 2016) and personal worry. Very often, anxieties about how to handle scarce resources force people to negotiate their commitments with local institutions. Some of the tactics framing these negotiations – such as transforming the nature of signs from icons and indices to symbols, or reducing the amount of valuables exchanged – are my subject of analysis. Keane’s point that the economy is ‘directly implicated in the very meaningfulness of actions through the causal logic of indexicality’ is relevant to this argument (1997: 27).

Customary marriage practices in Dili today Most weddings in Dili occur after the couple has been living together for some time or when the betrothed becomes pregnant. They only take place when the families are ready to commit to the financial expenses that these ceremonies entail. Marriage formalities are necessary conditions for the recognition of the bride and groom as family members on both sides. Only as official family members are they allowed to take part in customary practices 215

Kelly Silva

which are essential for reproducing themselves, the institutions they belong to and the very social world in which they live. In contemporary Dili, weddings are usually enacted through three different moments: the customary ceremonials in which material exchanges are carried out and ritual speeches delivered; the wedding ceremony at the Church and then the celebratory party (as planned). Hence, customary material marriage exchanges are just one of the moments in the wedding, the other requires attendance at the Christian rituals. As social devices, marriage exchanges may pursue several outcomes simultaneously, be they customary or otherwise. The ritual performances regulate rights in the person; they are vehicles for lineages to pay respect to each other and by inference to their respective ancestors; they promote the circulation of assets and money; and they also legitimate a family’s access to a woman in marriage to secure the reproduction of their lineage. These consequences, however, are not a given, but rather the result of negotiations between real people. The question to be asked then is what are the conditions, contexts, and mechanisms that lend material exchanges specific meaning and sway over sociality and identity. Customary marriages comprise a series of reciprocal material exchanges that involve specific gift-functions before, during and following the wedding. They are carried out 2 in specific ceremonial gatherings when ritual speeches are also delivered. It is through these exchanges that affines agree to their mutual debts. These debts compel them into collaborative and reciprocal relationships whenever events such as life-cycle rituals of close relatives take place. In Dili, wife-takers are called fetosa’an and wife-givers, umane. Each step in the negotiation and gift-function offerings is mediated by spokespersons chosen by the families involved. In Dili, public marriage negotiations led by these spokespersons represent the respective fetosa’an and umane, and are informed by previous consultations with members of the groups concerned and ritual authorities of the groom’s house. In these consultations, the gift requests for marriage are spelled out, and conversations amongst house members continue until they reach a consensus. Some people seek to attribute a Christian meaning to the customary procedures that seal the wedding (see Silva 2013). My interlocutors frequently equate marriage exchanges with the Christian values of fraternity and solidarity. The most common expression to validate relationships established between wife-givers and wife-takers on the occasion of the marriage for their children is that now they are all part of a single family and will remain friends, which means that they will share lifelong reciprocal obligations. Various Christian-oriented metaphors appear in the narratives of Timorese Dili residents interviewed during fieldwork in Dili to help me make sense of marriage exchanges and also during the negotiation process itself. According to one spokesperson, Mr Francisco, the main function of marriage exchanges is the pursuit of unity, peace, wisdom and reciprocal goodwill. On other occasions, marriage was said to ‘bring the newly-weds to meet God (Maromak)’, whilst the mutual love between bride and groom was said to be the main stimulus forging the duties of their alliance which brought people together. Rather than being an anathema to customary practices, romantic love would contribute to their reproduction. There are efforts to make the relationship between marrying groups more ­symmetrical and egalitarian, unlike what is mostly seen amongst indigenous peoples in Eastern ­Indonesia, where the wife-giver house is considered superior to the wife-taker one. This quest for equality between wife-takers and wife-givers is one of the moral concerns most often pointed out by my interlocutors. Whether or not this is achieved in the course of their interaction remains to be seen. At any rate, that this aspect is singled out as a major moral challenge in marriage negotiations is in itself noteworthy. It indicates the extent to which 216

Culture as symbol

perceived equality – as a Christian and national value manipulated and promoted for different purposes, with different motivations and unforeseen consequences – calls into question the very reproduction of customary practices. The magnitude and material expression of each gift-function result from negotiations between wife-takers and wife-givers which take into account people’s commitment to their house of origin (uma lulik in Tetum), to Christian cosmology and to the bride’s status – whether she is a virgin, has a university degree, a good job, and so on. Table 16.1 summarises the repertoire and sequence of potential ceremonial gatherings carried out for marriage purposes in Dili and the names of the gift-functions offered. The most common goods exchanged during negotiations and in marriage prestations are money, buffalo, gold or silver discs (belak), swords (surik), coral necklaces (morteen), areca palm, betel nuts and lime (bua malus), goats, pigs, tais (locally woven cloth), rice, liquor, cigarettes, candles, firewood, old coins (florins and patacas), spices, wardrobes, beds, mattresses, female toiletry, statues of Catholic saints – as Saint Anthony and Our Lady of Fatima – and gold rings and chains. These goods are assembled differently at each ceremonial meeting between the families. They are gathered in such a way as to fulfil specific gift-functions. For instance, two goats, 400 US dollars, two beer boxes and a basket of bua malus (betel nut and lime) may compose a tuku odamatan gift-function. At a hatama antra ceremony, a number of buffalo and liquor may be offered as part of barlake, whilst other goods, not part of barlake, are transferred to the bride’s family simply to be consumed during the wedding. Aitukan-bemanas is an important gift-function in this context. Ideally, it is conferred to the bride’s parents as compensation for the hardships of raising her. The goods that circulate in marriage prestations are commonly classified as female or male gifts – depending on if they come from the bride or from the groom’s family, respectively – and the mutual exchange of valuables between wife-takers and wife-givers is compulsory. Anything can be converted into money, and money itself can become a gift. Therefore, the presence of money by no means transforms the negotiation into a commodity operation, Table 16.1  Comparison of marriage stages Ceremonial gathering

Gift-functions

Tuku odamatam Hamos dalan/loke dalan Konhece malu

Tuku odamatan (to knock at the door) Hamos dalan/loke dalan (to clear, to open up the way) Konhece malu (mutual introduction of wife-takers and wife-givers) Taka moe (to end the shame) Pedido oficial (official marriage proposal) Barlake Antra (gifts) Aitukan-bemanas (firewood and hot water) Fo sala (to give away [reveal?] the mistake) Hussu licença (to ask permission) –

Pedido official Hatama antra or troka prenda

Simu feto foun

The gift-functions of taka moe and fo sala may be requested whenever the wife-givers or wife-takers believe that the other party did not pay them proper respect. These feelings may be triggered when certain ceremonial meetings, such as the konhece malu, do not happen at the right time or when one party did not receive what had been agreed upon as a marriage prestation. The gift-function of hussu licensa may be offered when what is deemed the natural order of things is not observed, for instance, when a younger sister marries before an older one.

217

Kelly Silva

a form of purchase. It all depends on how it is combined with other items and mechanisms to control the meaning of marriage exchanges. One of the main technologies to control the semantic intent of marriage material exchanges is ritual speech (Keane 1997). Indeed, customary marriage consists of the exchange of valuables and ancestral words between wife-takers and wife-givers. Both sides identify themselves as separate groups of origin vis-à-vis the other, and pay respects and recognition to their respective ancestors and local institutions. In various East Timor and Eastern Indonesian contexts, acts of respect and recognition consist of making sacrifices, which renounce access to and use of certain resources in order to offer them to others. Sacrifice, thus, presupposes suffering, that is, someone relinquishes something important to make it available to others. As Howell (1989: 419) reminds us, this is the rationale behind gift-giving according to Marcel Mauss (1974). Specific exchanges acquire the character of gift-giving when people realise their partners are giving away a part of themselves. Moreover, from an analytical perspective, marriage exchanges yield respect because through them negotiators agree to engage in a relationship either as Fetosa’an or Umane. In agreeing to mutual indebtedness, they acknowledge each other’s existence. In these contexts, to show respect amounts to engaging in a relationship of interdependence and indebtedness without wavering. The potential of marriage exchanges to generate individual and collective recognition becomes evident when a misdemeanour in marriage negotiations has the opposite effect. Greed and failure to follow the proper etiquette during negotiations and the reciprocal exchange of goods usually triggers feelings of moral indignation with serious consequences to a couple’s future life and relationship between affines. Such misbehaviour is considered an assault on one’s dignity, a concept that in Dili vernacular has no correspondence to the way it is used in more egalitarian societies. As I have proposed (Silva 2010), to have ‘dignity’ ­(dignidade) means to be recognised for having a position important enough to deserve deference and obedience. Offering goods is fundamental to create both dignity and agency. Were a groom to organise his wedding more independently, consulting neither his nor his bride’s parents and relatives, or paying attention to traditional procedures, he would undoubtedly incur the impact of this moral indignation. Such a decision would be interpreted as a refusal to be grateful, amounting to the denial of outstanding debts and social relations with those who reared and nurtured them. From the point of view of those who receive gifts, to acknowledge a debt to a gifting donor – to be paid in due course – is the best way to show respect and recognition. Through a debt network, which is also an alliance network, persons construct themselves and engage in reciprocal gestures of recognition. Hence, debt, sacrifice, relatedness, respect and recognition converge with one another and acquire elective affinities (Weber 1997). Material and moral conditions being unique to specific people, there is no universal pattern of sacrifice or suffering. Therefore, marriage prestations and their repercussions on the matter of respect should always be contextualised. The larger the marriage prestations – ­following particular expectations of status– the greater the respect towards affines. Importantly, the amount and value of the objects exchanged do matter to build up the representative potential of the gifts. As Pierce (1999) maintains, representation consists of ‘an object which exists in relation to another in such a way that an experience with the former informs us about the latter.’ Of the three requirements Pierce identifies for representation to occur,3 the claim that there must be a causal connection with that which is represented is crucial to understand the role of the material qualities of the goods exchanged as gifts in 218

Culture as symbol

relation to matter or recognition and respect. This claim puts the importance of the signifier, that is, the material value of the representation, at the centre of the debate. As stated above, demonstrations of respect and recognition between wife-givers and wife-takers are necessary to seal a marriage, and they occur when one of the parties realises that the other has overcome material hardships to fulfil their commitments. Hardships are always gauged contextually, taking into account the economic capacity of the respective origin groups. In this moral reckoning, the quantity and quality of the resources offered in each gift-function will denote respect and recognition if they are causally connected to these hardships. Thus, an aitukan-bemanas-type gift of 500 dollars, one belak, plus two buffalo offered by a fetosa’an origin group whose members are poor, will certainly denote respect. The same cluster of objects and money, if so proposed, will not produce a recognition effect when offered by a high status, well-to-do family. To the contrary, it will have the effect of a moral insult, for the participants know that collecting that amount of resources is no hardship at all for those wealthy wife-takers. For this reason, the goods and resources that circulate in marriage ceremonies are featured as signs of a particular kind: they are both icons and indexes. Again, Pierce is an inspiration. He differentiates signs into three broad types: (1) icon, a sign with a signifying potential coming from its relation of similarity with the thing represented; (2) index, the denotative potential of which emerges from the factual or symbolic connection with that which is denoted; and (3) symbols, signs whose representative capacity derives from a relationship established with the thing represented by force of habit (Pierce 1999: 52). In the moral economy of marriage exchanges, recognition arises from demonstrations of material hardships. As moral dispositions and material goods become measurable, the quantity and quality of the goods offered are similar or factually connected to what is being represented. In other words, hardships are always contextually gauged. Marriage gifts appear to be signs of the icon and index type, because their material shape is not entirely arbitrary. Both quantity and quality are important to denote hardships and, hence, generate recognition. Therefore, objects and money offered together represent and constitute hardships and respect. This is the scenario where contemporary anxieties about projects of Dili marriage exchanges take place. Amongst the anxieties is the claim that goods exchanged be regarded as symbolic gifts. Although my interlocutors do not refer to Pierce when they suggest that these resources become symbolic gifts, it is this author’s understanding of symbol what best expresses their demands.

Marriage expenses and the quest for financial balance and social independence Customary marriage ceremonies always entail substantial investments in the ritual exchanges between wife-givers and wife-takers. This fact breeds much apprehension because of the high cost of living that affects most of the country’s population, even though a part of the valuables offered in marriage exchanges are brought together by donations derived from calls in debts from a family’s umane and fetosa’an. In this section I focus on the demands of young men and women who work in Dili to reassess gift-giving practices. At different moments during fieldwork, I met interlocutors who requested that the state regulate the gifts exchanged in marriage. They suggested a maximum level of gifts to be offered to wife-givers.4 Their demands come from the fact that many people feel exploited with excessive demands for marriage prestations, which they feel that they must honour in order to maintain prestige and family relationships. As Alonso Población, Pena Castro and 219

Kelly Silva

Fidalgo Castro (2018) pointed out, many of these young people regard culture as a burden and a source of difficulties hampering their full engagement with modern state institutions and ways of life. Large investments in gift-giving, especially marriage, compete with the desire to retain and accumulate personal savings, the hegemonic western form of wealth (Dumont 2000). The economic experience of some Dili residents seems to be marked with anxieties p­ roduced by the coexistence of competing and contradictory demands regarding personal resource ­management. On the one hand, customary practices, which require a minimal share of resources, validate debt-making as a means to uphold social ties and prestige. On the other hand, success stories and narratives of the good life boost individual aspirations for accumulation and exempt the person from any kind of obligation, even though they encourage indebtedness to banks for micro-business investments (Silva and Simião 2017). In other words, it seems that Dili residents live between the two competing notions of wealth that anthropological theory has distinguished between wealth in people and wealth in things (Guyer 1995). As a response to these ambiguities and anxieties, new ways to handle marriage exchanges are emerging. In tandem with the demands for state regulation of these exchanges there is also the demand to simplify them. This means reducing the number of ceremonial ­g atherings where material exchanges are negotiated and fulfilled. To simplify also implies decreasing the amount of goods and money presented as gifts. In the words of my interlocutors, the gifts offered should be transformed into symbolic tokens of respect, consideration and good intentions in the name of satisfactory relationships between umane and fetosa’an. For instance, one interlocutor (a young man) suggested to me: Today one should not impose a burden on men because we are not selling [our women] (…) Nowadays we have to collaborate, working out together [wife-takers and ­w ife-givers] how much we are to expend in marriage formalities. (Free translation from original Tetum) The demand to transform marriage exchanges into symbolic gifts evokes their capacity to denote hardships and, therefore, recognition and respect, by force of habit, regardless of the quantity and quality of the gifts offered. It amounts to breaking up the causal relation b­ etween signified and signifying in the sense of rendering the former free from a factual c­ onnection with the latter’s quality or quantity. For example, one single buffalo could b­ ecome a symbol for the ten buffalo the wife-takers sacrifice to the wife-givers in demonstration of respect. What is proposed is that recognition and respect shown to the wife-givers be taken as an antecedent fact, different from and deeper than the goods offered. The exchange of just a few goods as symbolic representations would suffice to express dispositions that are irreducible to material things. This representational project is quite different from the way recognition and respect are created in marriage exchanges, as shown in the previous section. Goods being iconic and indexical signs, their quantity and quality directly affect their connotation. The amount and nature of the goods (money or anything else) continue to stand for consideration and respect as an act rather than as symbols representing something exterior to them. My young and waged interlocutors pondered that a substantial reduction of the resources exchanged would decrease the impact rituals have on domestic budgets without suppressing their attendant customary practices and values, for the goods exchanged would equally symbolise recognition and respect regardless of quantity and quality. Hopefully, these changes in marriage prestations will have no undesired consequences for the social reproduction of 220

Culture as symbol

new families born out of such marriages and for the relatives of the couple’s parents. This is a concern because the resources making up the circulating gifts in marriage agreements are collected from the obligatory offerings received by a creditor ego from those who stand in relation to him as wife-takers and wife-givers. To honour these debts, a debtor may have to make new ones, which will reduce the amount of resources available for other purposes. Demanding that marriage prestations be transformed into symbolic tokens of feelings of respect and consideration not gauged by the offerings has the further purpose of discharging people from the obligation to give material gifts to relatives in rural areas or in the capital. My young interlocutors of both sexes (25 years) criticise marriage exchanges on the grounds that families cannot force their members by blood (kinship) and marriage (affinity) to donate goods and money to rituals of a specific kind and quantity. They say, la bele obriga (they can’t force). To them, people should give what they can without getting into debt to honour traditional gift commitments. They also assume that those who are not entangled in a continuing chain of debts are freer to manage their own resources and personal life. This is deemed as a good thing, and the attraction of urbanised modernity is everywhere. There is, then, a claim to free the young from the burden of obligatory offerings imposed on them by kinship relations. However, the need to remodel customary practices rather than abandon them altogether is at stake. This trend is not restricted to Timor-Leste’s urban context. Keane (1997: 236) identifies a similar situation amongst the Anakalase of Sumba island. His younger interlocutors typified their era as a time of liberty, with freedom from the traditional duties and dependence relationships that entangled their elders.

Marriage prestations between gift and commodity exchange regimes Although a marriage is sealed via the performance of several stages of gift-functions, as discussed above, an important part of the debates around its constitutive material exchanges is the issue of barlake or folin. In translating the vagaries underscoring attempts by missionaries, colonial administrators and local elites to understand indigenous institutions, all the complexity of marriage exchanges in the Dili urban space have been reduced to the term barlake (Silva 2014, 2016). There isn’t, however, any consensus as to what barlake really implies. Its meaning is fluid and contested, which permits, amongst other things that many of the exchanges spelled out above continue to be carried out whilst other people deny practicing barlake. In the past few years I have shown that the core of the debate on marriage exchanges is related to their association with the regimes of commodity and gift exchange (Silva 2012, 2013). Those who criticise barlake do so because they think it turns a woman into an object, that is, it takes away her agency. This institution is disapproved of for supposedly rendering people, things and money as commensurable, an illegitimate stance from the standpoint of Christian and western morality, which maintains the opposition between persons and things as one of its most enduring classificatory pillars (Kopytoff 1986). One of the main causes for the high rates of domestic violence in the country is also attributed to barlake, following the logic that in marriage women are transformed into things and forms of property. However, in the eight years of my research on Dili marriage practices, I have never observed barlake expressed as a process of commodity exchange. Besides the local institutions defending gender equality and women’s rights, many critics of barlake, not by chance, were Dili residents before the Portuguese colonisation came to an end in 1975, or who were their descendants. Naturally, they were heavily exposed to colonial discourses about social distinctions and civilisation, and reproduced them in the postcolonial milieu. Amongst these, the criticism and negation of barlake is an act of 221

Kelly Silva

their auto-affirmation as civilised and modern, for they don’t engage in local usos e costumes as expected from the assimilated, and don’t make persons and things commensurate, as Christian morals proclaim. In contrast, they call those who defend barlake barbarians, with no culture and education, who overvalue material things acquired as barlake to the detriment of respect for women’s wills and desires. We can see here the hand of the colonial policy on custom. It still influences the politics of identity and social differences in postcolonial Dili. However, the material exchanges undertaken by those who stand against barkale can be very similar to those carried out by people who do practice it. Most of the gift-functions comprising each of the ceremonial meetings aforementioned are performed, but none qualifies as barlake. I have argued that this combination of elements is a strategy to simultaneously honour their local commitments to gift-giving and meet colonial expectations on sociality. It is not surprising, then, that for these people barlake consists solely of money and goods transferred in the troka prenda ceremony and afterwards. This perception allows them to reproduce an important part of the marriage exchanges whilst denying any commitment to barlake. On the other hand, with no moral qualms, the attitudes aforementioned coexist with praxis that celebrate barlake. Barlake is then defended as a way ‘to make a family,’ that is, to tie people to moral obligation networks and to protect those who belong to them, including women. It is emphatically denied that barlake has any negative impact on women. On the contrary, it suggests that brides whose marriage is not mediated by barlake are diminished by their husbands’ family as worthless, and thus rendering them vulnerable. It is argued that those who interpret barlake otherwise do it because they fail to really understand the functions and effects of marriage exchanges. In short, they don’t know their own traditions, their culture and are incapable of appreciating it. The position of those who defend barlake seems to also derive from both their exposure to Dili politics of custom and their own migratory history to the city. Most of these interlocutors settled in Dili after 1975, during Indonesian occupation or after the restoration of independence. In that period, Dili was no longer the exclusive home of those qualified as assimilated, according to colonial criteria. These new residents display a sociality that is not marked by the colonial prerogatives which condemned local practices for not being modern and civilised. Instead, their life in Dili goes along with a time that values customary practices and tradition revival (Henley and Davidson 2008: 816). It is worth expounding on a trend about the emergence of East Timorese identity, according to the suggestions of the survey called ‘Attitudes towards national identity among tertiary students in Melanesia and East Timor’ (Leach 2012). To own or to respect a particular custom, adat and usos e costumes is perceived as the major source of East Timoreseness East Timoreseness is understood to be a product of nationalist and postcolonial government practices which, unlike colonial times, have praised the ‘ownership’ of a particular culture. Nevertheless, it can also engender political and moral exclusion. For instance, the East Timoreseness of those with mestizo and assimilated ancestry is often challenged, for these people allegedly do not engage in customary practices. In other words, they are seen as people without origin and, consequently, belittled. In marriage negotiations, for example, a frequent source of anxiety resides in the assessment of whether the bride and groom are ‘people of origin’, members of houses of medium or high rank in the local scale, and people who praise their traditions. Be it as it may, to value one’s culture means that those who think of themselves as owners of a culture are both authentic East Timorese and modern folk. 222

Culture as symbol

Final remarks: symbol and gift-giving In this chapter, I have analysed the pattern and possible reshaping of marriage prestations in Dili as they undergo the impact of multiple tensions. Competing expectations over sociality, prestige-building mechanisms and divergent ideas about wealth accumulation and sharing circulate around town and strain the way in which people negotiate their commitments to local and global institutions. Most Dili residents go through subjectivation processes via projects to honour their gift-giving obligations – through which membership to origin houses and rights in persons are reproduced – and to accumulate resources geared to market exchanges and their attendant institutions, at once at the same time. Most of the time, such two projects coexist in a competitive way. In response to these two projects, young people in the city demand changes in the signs and material expectations that comprise marriage prestations. They argue that marriage gifts should simply be gestures of respect and recognition, irreducible and incommensurate to these symbols and tied to them by force of habit. More precisely, they suggest that the quantity and quality of the goods offered should not affect the potential significance accorded the gift. Respect and consideration should be detached from the amount and value of the goods exchanged between wife-givers and wife-takers. This would allow the persons or social groups who amass these resources to handle them more freely and independent of kinship obligations. Besides the suggestions I have made here, I also argue that taking marriage exchanges as symbolic gifts helps ascribe them to the regime of gift exchange. As the representative potential of the resources exchanged in marriage prestations is no longer expressed in their amount and quality, the risk that the bride will be weighed against prestations offered as a counter-gift, for example, in order to enter her husband’s family’s house is small. Although I have never witnessed marriage exchanges that were treated as market exchanges, rumours that they have been done are used as an argument for social differentiation and moral exclusion. To presume that the goods exchanged are symbols undermines any force this argument might attract. However, we need to be mindful that resources which circulate in marriage exchanges are tied up with notions of the sacred. These associations in turn, derive from the idea of membership to a group of origin whose roots and ancestors lie in the country’s uplands and rural spaces. Material exchanges connected to life-cycle rituals – in which marriage is ­central – are one of the ways in which rural people gain access to the multiple resources ­coming from the city. I end this essay by suggesting that it is very likely that the rural population is not interested in transforming the goods and gifts that circulate in marriage exchanges into the kinds of simplified symbols I have discussed, and that new controversies may emerge from this clash of interests. The future will tell!

Notes 1 I understand regimes of exchanges as analytical categories for making sense of the diverse rules, expectations and effects involved in the particular ways in which individuals and peoples transact valuables, rights in persons or signs of recognition. The epistemological efforts to understand such phenomena have yielded three ideal types of regimes of exchanges: barter, commodity transactions and gift-giving. Very briefly, the gift regime may be understood as the one in which, by means of the exchange, people negotiate relations which are outside the very transaction (­Strathern 1992). People and things are treated as persons, becoming valuable bridges for producing and reproducing long-term relationships between people. There is a sort of unity and consubstantiality between

223

Kelly Silva the valuable exchanged and the giver that render the first inalienable and animate, endowed with a certain agency. The values of such items are measured by rank and not by price. The parts involved in the exchanges are somehow mutually dependent and stand before one another asymmetrically (Gregory 1982: 41–70), and the valuables’ equivalence is constructed from a long-term perspective. The gift is often taken as compulsory. Great independence amongst the transactors and the presence of currency as a means to quantify and measure value are two of the main characteristics of the commodity regime of exchange. Conversely to gift-giving, the relationships between people are experienced as relationships between things in market transactions. There is no consubstantiality between the transactors and the things exchanged that makes the valuables alienable, inanimate and subject to human actions. Their values are measured by their price, and their equivalence must be immediate (Gregory 1982: 41–70). 2 I use gift-function in order to highlight the fact that the effects and morality of the gift (as a regime of exchange and power) is made up of a number of steps, each one consisting of particular gift-function. From my perspective, to use gift-function give us a more accurate view of the processual character of that phenomenon, the gift. 3 According to Pierce, for a representation to truly exist, it must observe the following requirements: (a) it must exhibit qualities regardless of its meaning; (b) it must have a causal connection with that which it represents; and (c) it is directed to the mind. 4 Since the colonial period, regulations on marriage exchanges have been made by various government agents in Oceania. For instance, in Vanuatu, today, the state has passed a law regulating the goods that must constitute marriage prestations so that they become an instrument of economic development in the countryside. Thus, the goods involved are exclusively produced in rural areas. For greater detail on this subject, see Jolly (2015) and Marksbury (1993).

References Alonso-Población, E., Fidalgo-Castro, A. and Pena-Castro, M. J. (2018). Bargaining Kultura. Tensions Between Principles of Power Acquisition in Contemporary Timor-Leste. Sociologus, 68, pp. 107–124. Appadurai, A. (1986). ‘Introduction’. In: The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 3–63. Barnes, S. (2010). ‘Nation-Building and the “Resurgence of Custom”’. In: Damian Grenfell et al. (eds.), Nation-Building Across the Urban and Rural in Timor-Leste. Conference Report. Melbourne. RMIT University and Australian Volunteers International. Available at: https://dro.deakin.edu. au/eserv/DU:30059454/stead-nationbuilding-2010.pdf. Accessed June 10, 2012. Bovensiepen, J. (2014). Lulik: Taboo, Animism, or Transgressive Sacred? An Exploration of Identity, Morality, and Power in Timor-Leste. Oceania, 84(2), pp. 121–137. Dumont, L. (2000). Homo Aequalis. Gênese e plenitude da ideologia econômica. Bauru: EDUSC. Fox, J. J. (1980). ‘Introduction’. In: J. J. Fox (ed.), The Flow of Life: Essays in Eastern Indonesia. ­Cambridge: Harvard University Press, pp. 11–18. Goody, J. (1973). ‘Bridewealth and Dowry in Africa and Euroasia’. In: J. Goody and S. J. Tambiah (eds.), Bridewealth and Dowry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–58. Gregory, C. A. (1982). Gifts and Commodities. London: Academic Press. Guyer, J. I. and Belinga, S. (1995). Wealth in People as Wealth in Knowledge: Accumulation and Composition in Equatorial Africa. The Journal of African History, 36(01), pp. 91–120. DOI:10.1017/ S0021853700026992 Henley, D. and Davidson, J. (2008). In the Name of adat: Regional Perspectives on Reform, Tradition and Democracy in Indonesia. Modern Asian Studies, 42(4), pp. 815–852. Hicks, D. (2007). Community and Nation-State in East Timor. Anthropology Today, 23, pp. 13–16. Howell, S. (1989). Of Persons and Things: Exchange and Valuables among the Lio of Eastern ­Indonesia. Man, New Series, 24(3), pp. 419–438. Jolly, M. (2015). Braed Praes in Vanuatu: Both Gifts and Commodities? Oceania. Special Issue: Gender and Person in Oceania, 85(1), pp. 63–78. Keane, W. (1997). Signs of Recognition: Powers and Hazards of Representation in an Indonesian Society. Los Angeles: University of California Press.

224

Culture as symbol Kopytoff, I. (1986). ‘The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process’. In: A. ­Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in a Cultural Perspective. Cambridge: University Press, pp. 64–91. Leach, M. (2012). Longitudinal Change in East Timorese Tertiary Student Attitudes to National ­Identity and Nation-Building: 2002–2010. Journal of the Humanities and Social Sciences of Southeast Asia and Oceania, 168(2–3), pp. 219–252. Mamdani, M. (1998). Ciudadano y súbdito. África contemporánea y el legado del colonialismo tardío. Madri: Siglo XXI Editores. Marksbury, R. A. (1993). The Business of Marriage. Transformations in Oceanic Matrimony. ASAO M ­ onograph. p. 14. University of Pittsburg Press. Mauss, M. (1974). ‘Ensaio sobre a dádiva’. In: Sociologia e antropologia, vol. II. São Paulo: Editora ­Pedagógica e Universitária Ltda, pp. 37–184. McWilliam, A., Palmer, L. and Shepherd, C. (2014). Lulik Encounters and Cultural Frictions in East Timor: Past and Present. The Australian Journal of Anthropology, 25(3), pp. 304–320. Pierce, C. (1999). Semiótica. São Paulo: Perspectiva. Ranck, S. (1977). ‘Recent Rural-Urban Migration to Dili, Portuguese Timor: A Focus on the Use of Households, Kinship and Social Networks by Timorese Migrants’. MA thesis, Macquarie ­University, Sydney. Silva, K. (2010). Processes of Regionalisation in East Timor Social Conflicts. Anthropological Forum, 20(2), pp. 105–123. Silva, K. (2012). ‘Foho Versus Dili: The Political Role of Place in East Timor National Imagination’. Realis*Revista de Estudos Antiutilitaristas e Pos-coloniais, 1(2). Available at: www.nucleodecidadania. org/revista/index.php/realis/article/view/28. Silva, K. (2013). Negotiating Tradition and Nation: Mediations and Mediators in the Making of Urban Timor-Leste. The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 14, pp. 455–470. Silva, K. (2014). ‘Marriage Exchanges, Colonial Fantasies and the Production of East Timor I­ ndigenous Socialities in the 1970s Dili’. In: Loney et al. (eds.), Understanding Timor-Leste/­Comprender ­Timor-Leste/ Hatene kona ba Timor-Leste, Dili. Understanding TimorLeste/Compreeender T ­ imor-Leste/Hatene kona ba Timor-Leste. Melbourne, II, pp. 228–233. Silva, K. (2016). Administrando pessoas, recursos e rituais. Pedagogia econômica como tática de governo em Timor-Leste. Horizontes Antropológicos, 22(45), pp. 127–153. DOI:10.1590/S0104-71832016000100006 Silva, K. and Simião, D. (2017). ‘Negotiating Culture and Gender Expectations in Timor-Leste: ­A mbiguities in Post Colonial Governance Strategies’. In: Sara Niner (ed.), Women and the Politics of Gender in Post-conflict Timor-Leste. Between Heaven and Earth. London: Routledge, pp. 187–206 Strathern, M. (1992). ‘Qualified Value: The Perspective of Gift Exchange’. In C. Humphrey and S. Hugh-Jones (ed.), Barter, Exchange and Value: An Anthropological Approach. Cambridge: C ­ ambridge University Press, pp. 169–191. Weber, M. (1997). A ética protestante e o espírito do capitalismo. São Paulo: Livraria Pioneira Editora.

225

17 Mane ho feto kompleta malu Gender relations in contemporary Timor-Leste Sara Niner Relations between women and men evolve within particular historical periods and ­operate within institutions, cultures and societies. These gender relations, along with other elements such as race and class, are part of the cultural reproduction and maintenance of social hierarchies that attribute power and privilege to some at the expense of others. The socialisation of consent to these regimes of power occurs within cultures and institutions which teach and perpetuate the customs and values that underpin them. Gender regimes constitute and reinforce the gender order through the socialisation of consent amongst those being dominated without the necessity of force and violence. ­Patriarchal social organisation prevails around the world in which men are dominant over women, are awarded decision-making power and control material resources accordingly. This dominance is often rationalised as the natural biological order and although scientifically disproven, it still largely determines how men and women are expected to behave, in the same way that racial attributes have been stereotyped and underpin race relations and racism. Although these same patriarchal forces are at work all around the world, the reproduction of these systems appears very differently across societies and cultures. Therefore, to understand gender relations in any society, a deep appreciation is required of how people organise themselves and reproduce their values and understandings. This chapter explores the gender relations apparent in contemporary Timorese society and the historical forces that have influenced the evolution of these relations. It also surveys some of the most pressing contemporary issues in this field of study, including the dominance of men in Timorese history, the legacy of militarisation, gendered political economy, masculinities and gendered violence. The common Timorese saying quoted in the title of this chapter, mane ho feto kompleta malu ‘men and women complete each other’, is based on customary beliefs that men and women and their gender roles are complementary elements of a holistic indigenous social system. Anthropologists, with a tradition of cultural relativism, along with Timorese cultural advocates, often agree that although patriarchal systems dominate, women in TimorLeste are honoured and awarded status and power in local cosmology and that they have an important place in the private realm of the family where organisation has been described as matrifocal or centred on the mother. 226

Mane ho feto kompleta malu

Whilst these indigenous values illuminate a profound dimension of gender relations in contemporary Timor-Leste, to appreciate fully the gender relations between women and men, we must also consider history and the political economy. For instance, in Timor-Leste women earn one-eighth of the income of men (ADB/Unifem 2005) and have higher levels of malnutrition and illiteracy than men (UN 2010). Approximately one-third of women have experienced physical violence from a current or former husband or partner (NDS 2010: 243). To understand why these circumstances exist when women are so honoured in the ­socio-cultural realm, an historical and political economy analysis must also be included. This chapter attempts to bring these different ways of measuring and analysing together.

Gender relations prevalent in customary society The cosmology of gender The indigenous belief system portrays men and women’s roles as complementary and fixed by examples set by the ancestors and entrenched in customary practices and beliefs. The ­tasi-feto, female sea, to the north of the island embodies attributes of calmness and gentleness, but to the south, the unrestrained and wild ‘male sea’ (tasi mane) is feared and treacherous (Traube 1995: 46). This example offers a characterisation of cultural understandings of masculinity and femininity or the gender attributes expected of men and women in customary Timor. These ‘traditional’ or indigenous Timorese gender norms vary across districts and between clan groups or lineage ‘houses’, with social organisation ranging from patrilineal to matrilineal or matrilocal, but with certain commonalities in cosmological beliefs. In some localities such as the Mambai areas, there are associations between the earth and a feminine generative power similar to the idea of a mother earth (Traube 1995). Amongst the people of Viqueque, Hicks (2004: 27) describes a visible and tangible secular world, rai, which lies on the earth’s surface and is dominated by men, whilst the sacred world, rai laran, the world inside, is dominated by female ancestral spirits. The king or liurai was the profane or public leader and symbolically ‘male’. In some localities, such as Wehali, this domain sits in a complementary relationship with the passive ‘female’ ritual ruler (maromak o’an, child of god), ‘who held the system in place by being immobile and resting at the centre’ (Fox 1982; Hagerdal and Kammen 2017). The feminine and fertility are powerful forces in indigenous belief systems with significant female symbology of womb and mother earth (Cristalis and Scott 2005; Fox 1980; Hicks 2004; Trindade 2009). Women are important in ritual practice, particularly in matrilineal communities. Timorese anthropologist, Jose Trindade (2009), highlights the sacredness accorded women across Timorese cultures and the prominence of the divine female element, the feto maromak. Referring to matrilineal Wehali, a society on the southern coast stretching into West Timor, Therik (2004: 7–8) stresses women’s structural importance and emphasises how the practice of matrilocal marriage endorsed the superior status of the ‘female insider’.

Political organisation Contemporary Timorese citizens are influenced to widely varying degrees by the ancient animist belief system referred to as lulik and the established social hierarchy associated with this cultural complex. The belief and acceptance of customary leadership and social hierarchy is strong, enduring and reflected in the post-conflict revival of these authority structures. This includes the place of local hereditary rulers or liurai, and their family, who are part of an 227

Sara Niner

indigenous upper class, and dato, who are obliged to lead and serve their communities. Both women and men of this social class were, and still often are, very influential in contemporary politics (see Hicks chapter this volume). These beliefs underlie the dominance of men in formal social exchange and political processes. This is well described in contemporary society by applied anthropologists, Ospina and Hohe, who note that Traditionally…the decision making process is the domain of the senior male of the existing social groups within the hamlets. Rural women are not supposed to be outspoken and take the floor in public meetings. However, the feriks (senior women) have an important role in social exchanges and rituals. (Ospina and Hohe 2002: 110) Thus in public or political decision-making processes, senior men are seen to dominate, whilst women, particularly senior women, hold less obvious power in more private social and spiritual practices that are not so well known by outsiders.

Social organisation Women are honoured and awarded status and power in all local cosmologies. Matrilineal and matrilocal systems where women are accorded more formal power do exist in Timor, although they constitute a minority of communities.1 Yet, even in customary patriarchal systems, women have a significant position in the private realm of the family where organisation can be described as matrifocal or matri-centric, centred on the mother (Costa-Pinto and Whittaker 2010; Siapno 2000). It is also well documented that women make many household decisions (Myat Thu 2016; Siapno 2000: 279). However, women’s power in the family and their superior symbolic status translates largely into the primacy of domestic and reproductive role for women, whilst men’s power and status is based within the public political and productive sphere (Costa-Pinto and Whittaker 2010: 510) where key decisions effecting women’s socio-economic status are made. Indigenous kinship and alliance systems are maintained through marriage which is bound by the practice of barlake (erroneously simplified in translations to dowry or bride price). This is a key mechanism in the wider customary system that maintains social and spiritual harmony in indigenous society (Cristalis and Scott 2005: 22). In patrilineal societies, the customary rituals of barlake transfer women spiritually and symbolically to their husbands’ lineage. The strong and ongoing nature of the barlake rituals and practices form an alliance, and cement civil relations, between bride and groom’s family providing the couple with strong social capital and support. Barlake also effectively and symbolically transfers a woman’s profoundly valuable asset of fertility and future children, from her natal family to that of her in-law’s. A syncretic feature of both customary and Catholic marriage is that women are encouraged to produce many children, who then remain bound spiritually to the sacred house of the husband’s family. This, along with the effects of loss associated with a long war, has resulted in high fertility rates (approximately five to six children per woman) (UNICEF 2015), and in turn high infant (45/1,000) and maternal (214/1,000) mortality rates (UNDP 2016). The chapter’s title, mane ho feto kompleta malu, is often repeated by Timorese, demonstrating the belief that men and women and their roles are complementary parts of a whole, harmonious social system (Niner et al. 2015). Working together in dynamic equilibrium in customary, symbolically defined roles, men undertake the so-called ‘heavy’ or ‘hard’ work and women, 228

Mane ho feto kompleta malu

the ‘light’ or ‘easy’ work. This well-documented gendered categorisation of male work as hard or heavy and women’s work as easy or light, again appears symbolic as the examples of men’s tasks (building, ploughing, climbing trees) are not any more arduous than women’s work (such as harvesting, planting, carrying water and washing clothes) (Ospina 2009: 35–37; Niner et al. 2015). Women’s domestic or reproductive labour is not often considered in this ­labour schema. Anecdotally, it is understood that when this ‘invisible’ domestic or reproductive l­abour is counted, women work for far longer hours per day than men (Araújo 2012). In a similar way, anthropologists have always described these roles of women and men in Timor as ‘complementary’ or ‘interdependent’, but asymmetrical. In other words, the characterisation of the roles of male and female as complementary is a relative understanding and should not be taken to imply equality or symmetry, in the sense of what is understood as gender equality or equity, according to international norms or the global feminist movement. The strong tenet of cultural relativism within the discipline of anthropology has hindered an analysis of women’s status in this regard (Macintyre 2017: 9). In discussing gender relations, as well as social distinction, or class, in Melanesia today, Macintryre (2017: 5) points out that ‘the complex entanglement of social relations based in precolonial systems with those of colonialism, Western education, new economic forms and Christian adherence belies this simplistic division into intrinsic and introduced.’ Although I have attempted a description above of what precolonial gender relations may have been, we may never truly know, and as Macintyre (2017) notes, cultures became so entwined they are difficult to separate and we should not presume that ‘custom’ is somehow fixed in the past. Culture is dynamic and is in relation not only to external forces but also to internal forces of change. The next section, therefore, considers how Portuguese colonialism affected East Timorese indigenous society.

Gendered effects of Portuguese colonial culture (sixteenth to nineteenth centuries) Portuguese explorers and traders first arrived in Timor in the sixteenth century and were incorporated into the indigenous exchange system. Over the next few hundred years, the ­Portuguese developed a ‘pluricontinental’ empire based on the dictum ‘one state, single and indivisible’ (um estado, uno e indivisível) (Almeida 2008). This created a colonial intimacy between the Timorese and Portuguese captured by Brazilian Gilberto Freyre’s semi-mystical doctrine of l­usotropicalism. The mixed-race peoples born of this colonial mixing are often referred to as mestiço. Yet, this ­colonial intimacy was also a result of the weakness of Portuguese colonial rule in Timor, both economically and politically. The Portuguese struggled to dominate Timor’s indigenous ­r ulers and brokered indirect rule through relationships with a network of loyal l­iurai. Colonial ­intimacy flourished through intermarriage and intermixing between these elites. Yet, this was extremely gendered: Portuguese men, mostly soldiers, had relations with local women, not the other way around. Whilst via Lustropicalismo, it could be argued that the Portuguese habit of intermarrying with their colonial subjects meant they did not practice the exclusionary racism of the English and Dutch; it was, like other colonial cultures, just as sexist and orientalist. The sexual abuse ­ ebellion’ of of local women by the Portuguese military was one reason behind the ‘Great R Timorese in 1912 (Ospina 2006: 19). These intimate relations were also the conduit for a new style of masculinity: authoritarian, nationalistic and militarised. Connell (2002: 254) explains that the imprinting of such a different, foreign gender order has created complex structures of gender relations all over the world. Timorese anthropologist, Josh Trindade theorises that Portuguese colonial agents encouraged local liurai to act 229

Sara Niner

more like European feudal kings and that this has had a deep impact on indigenous gender ­relations (Trindade 2012). Both the colonial regime and the Church recruited local male elites to consolidate power in the territory (Gunn 1999; Joshi and Haertsch 2003: 58). The Portuguese administration introduced the system of recognising male heads of households for tax collection purposes, and Domingas Coelho recalls that ‘The Portuguese never encouraged women to work outside the home – they were expected to stay at home all the time’ (Franks 1996: 158). It can be expected that these forces shifted gender relations in Timor. The moral and spiritual underpinning of the colonial gender regime was provided by the deeply patriarchal and conservative Catholic Church which intermittently supplied the ­education system to the Portuguese state. This system prioritised young men over women, limiting access to education for women and the social mobility that it generated (Loney 2015). This colonial preference for men’s education over women’s lingers on in Timorese society. Physical punishment was the norm in the schools and maybe the source of tolerance for the physical abuse of children in Timorese society today. The Church, ‘wedded to ideas of hierarchy and obedience’ (Harris Rimmer 2005: 164, 173), advocated strict gendered stereotypes. Women are honoured as wives and mothers; passive, demure and feminine, willing to obey and sacrifice their own interests for their husbands, families and Church. Men are expected to head the family, be the decision-makers, the guardians and protectors and provide Catholic service and authority in their communities. By the late 1960s, a small group of Timorese joined and begun to advocate the ­anti-colonial politics developed in other Portuguese colonies waging war against colonial control, ­especially in Africa. By the early 1970s, the nationalist movement, the Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor (Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente – FRETILIN), had begun opposing Portuguese colonialism and its racism and discrimination, whilst developing a revolutionary social and economic programme that included the emancipation of women (Loney 2015). Despite Fretilin’s commitment to gender equality, only three of the party’s 50-strong Central Committee members were women: ‘Muki’ Bonaparte, Maria do Céu Pereira and Guilhermina Araújo (Loney 2015). One of the Fretilin founders, Rosa ‘Muki’ Bonaparte was the leader of its women’s arm, the Popular Organisation of Timorese Women (Organização Popular da Mulher Timorense – OPMT), and confirmed the dominance of patriarchal structures in the colonial culture and their fight against it (Bonaparte 1976).

Gendered effects of Indonesian occupation (1975–1999) The violence and militarisation of the 24-year Indonesian occupation not only affected society with its ongoing regime of terror and violence but also shaped the nature of the armed and clandestine resistance fronts of which prominent figures in today’s government, military and police are veterans. In 1975, a three-week civil war, heavily manipulated by clandestine Indonesian military agents, was the precursor to the larger war and invasion. Xanana Gusmão compares the civil war to a cockfight and awards responsibility to the ­m acho-aggressive ­attitudes of the various Timorese political leaders (Gusmão 1994: 31). Tragically by the late 1970s, most of the original Fretilin Central Committee leadership had also been killed, along with approximately 100,000 Timorese people from a combination of violence, disease and starvation. Revolutionary ideals, including the emancipation of women, disappeared along with them. The revived resistance of the early 1980s had no such programme and little capacity to think beyond basic survival. They relied on family and clan networks to survive and revive the resistance, and the position of women in these customary networks remained those that ‘Muki’ had been fighting against. The resistance organisation 230

Mane ho feto kompleta malu

that developed within Timor was necessarily clandestine, militaristic and nationalistic rather than revolutionary. No woman ever held a senior position within the elite male power hierarchy that Xanana led (Niner 2013: 234). The militarisation of East Timorese men was comprehensive and systematic according to the violent model of masculinity inherent in the institution of the Indonesian military (cf. Wilson 2002: 212). Timorese conscripts or volunteers were organised into a variety of formal and informal military groupings (Niner 2009). Paramilitaries formed the basis of militias who carried out the destructive plans of the Indonesian military in 1999, after which they absconded to West Timor with the Indonesian army. The worst of them have remained there but left behind a ‘volatile, living legacy of a deeply militarised society’ (Scambary 2009). A further penetration of civilian society was accomplished by Indonesian social engineering to integrate young men into the state through organised sporting activities and youth groups (Ryter 1998). This included military-style marching groups and martial arts groups, some of which remain popular today. A further defining element of the Indonesian occupation and military strategy was the sexual abuse and constant sexual harassment of East Timorese women. Peter Carey (2001: 258) supposes this was motivated in part by the insecurity of occupation forces to prove their ‘potency’ to challenge the armed and clandestine resistance from local men. The treatment of women by the Indonesian military was obviously devastating for the victims and survivors, but the normalisation of such behaviour may still have reverberations today in the prevalence of sexual harassment of women in Timorese society and its institutionalisation.

The post-conflict environment and contemporary issues I have traced the dominance and male perspective of men historically and culturally in Timor. Today these influences have led to a persistent militarisation that endures long after the end of conflict with Indonesia. Enloe (2004: 217–218) argues that these influences ‘re-entrench the privileging of masculinity – in both private and public life’. Histories and political analysis of East Timor’s recent conflict-riven past privilege men and the actions and experiences of men, most often elite male leaders, the heroes of the war, who are assumed to represent the nation (Cuhna 2017). Women have so rarely appeared in nationalist representations that they have responded as best they can with their own histories. In what can be described as a campaign for recognition of women’s actions during the struggle for independence, a series of texts have been published by Timorese women and their collaborators which document and commemorate women’s roles. This small but growing number of publications include Maria Domingas Fernandes Alves, Laura Soares Abrantes and Filomena Reis’ Written with Blood (2001); Rede Feto’s Hau Fo Midar, Hau Simu Moruk [I Give Sweetness, I Receive Bitterness] (2007); and Laura Soares Abrantes and Beba Sequeira’s Secrecy: The Key to Independence (2010). A long-awaited multi-volume history of women in the resistance by OPMT has just been completed in Tetun titled Buibere hamrik ukun rasik an, ‘Women Stand for Independence’. However, the project is experiencing delays in the full publication due to a lack of government funding. These publications are particularly important in terms of East Timorese women documenting and commemorating the contributions of women to the struggle. Conforming to or complying with strict gender roles and regimes in patriarchal societies has negative effects for both women and men. The lack of individual freedom and deprivation of human potential and capabilities caused by such strict gender regimes are perhaps unmeasurable. Women are discriminated against in education systems and the economic and political arenas as many statistics show. Men must maintain dominance through aggressive and risk-taking behaviour resulting in physical and mental stress, ill-health and preventable 231

Sara Niner

death. Guttman (1997) explains that violence is often produced by the jockeying for power between ‘alpha-males’. Worldwide, men’s performance of masculinity increases their risks of dying. For instance, men are six times more likely to die in combat and twice as likely to die from suicide (WHO 2014). The Catholic Church continues to be an important political actor in the country due to its key role in struggles for independence between 1975 and 1999. The Church’s influential role in government and in people’s lives in contemporary Timor-Leste results in the significant conservative impact of religious discourses on gender roles and relationships, sex, reproduction and homosexuality. Patriarchal and authoritarian, its messages, both explicit and inferred, reinforce gender discrimination and male privilege. Today the Catholic Church retains enormous influence insisting on men’s roles as protectors of women and children and women as passive and patient, stymying other gender expressions and more liberal movements seeking gender equality and other gender forms.

Gendered political economy Timor-Leste is a post-conflict country where the population has faced widespread v­ iolence and trauma relating to the Indonesian military occupation (Modvig et al. 2000: 1763). ­A lthough Timor-Leste is one of the least economically developed countries in the A ­ sia-Pacific region, it has had a huge growth in gross domestic product due to income from the exploitation of petroleum deposits in the Timor Sea. Yet, these sudden riches have not transformed the situation for most Timorese who suffer trauma and intergenerational ­poverty in a life devoted to subsistence livelihoods. Indeed, how the government is saving and spending the new wealth is a matter of great public debate (Scambary 2017; Scheiner 2014). Strong links exist between gendered inequality and the informal nature of the p­ ost-conflict Timorese economy and state institutions. A system of wealth distribution through patronage and client networks via various social welfare and investment schemes is extremely gendered due to the lack of recognition afforded to women for their service to the independence struggle and to long-standing economic disparity. This makes women vulnerable to domestic violence, referred to as violencia iha uma laran (‘violence in the home’). The acceptance of this violence is the crudest expression of gender inequality and men’s dominance of women is a continuing significant issue in the post-conflict Timor-Leste. If Timorese women were marginalised in the power hierarchy of the nationalist struggle, they have succeeded in being included in today’s national parliament and government in significant numbers. Yet, this quantitative victory has not yet translated into a more qualitative one, and the struggle for recognition of women’s rights to be equal partners in national decision-making continues to be led for the most part by elite women selected by the male leadership. Women’s decision-making power in local communities and the private sphere is even more contested although improving (Cummins 2011; Niner 2011; Niner et al. 2013). In relation to Timor’s alarming infant and maternal mortality rates, we can see how indigenous, colonial and postcolonial histories and cultural influences and the gendered post-conflict political economy have conspired to expose women to poor health and mortality outcomes.

A militarised legacy Many leading figures in the post-conflict administration are heroes of the armed independence struggle and most have been significantly affected by those experiences. As in most places in the world, demobilisation in Timor failed to deal with the deep imprinting of 232

Mane ho feto kompleta malu

violent masculinities in former combatants and the effects of militarisation on society overall. Connell (2002: 256) describes the reassertion of men’s patriarchal authority after conflict and how this provides a focus on the establishment of new armies. Militarisation in post-war societies re-entrenches the privileging of masculinity (Enloe 2004: 217–218). The continuing expansion of military and police bodies and the substantial purchase of military arms and hardware appears excessive in such an underdeveloped economy where the health and education sectors are so severely under-resourced. The 2006 national crisis shattered the process of national reconstruction and can be explained by complex internecine conflicts between male political elites and their agents including divisions within the army (the Falintil-Forças Armadas de Defesa de Timor-Leste – F-FDTL) and between them and the police force (Polícia Nacional de Timor-Leste – PNTL) and their political deputies (Niner 2009: 226–230). Violent expressions of masculinity dominated national-level armed conflict between the male-dominated leadership of the institutions of government, army and police, and other episodes that have reoccurred periodically since. In the chaos following 2006, Alfredo Reinado, a member of a rebel faction of the army, established an impenetrable hilltop base. In Dili, his public notoriety spread and young urban men began to replicate his hyper-masculine military style. Reinado’s image borrowed from both the Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor – 1975–2001 (Forças Armadas de Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste – FALINTIL) resistance heroes and the military strong man image of Indonesian generals, and their militias (Niner 2008). The clash of alpha masculinities between Reinado and the national leadership again led to the re-emergence of national insecurity and civic violence. Amongst contemporary youth in East Timorese society, the prevalence of military-style marching groups and martial arts groups is also pervasive. A 2005 World Bank report estimates that there were approximately 20,000 registered martial arts members and as many as 90,000 unregistered members (Ostergaard 2005: 22). Amongst this plethora of groups are criminal gangs and remnants of armed civilian militias from the occupation. Some of the older members of current martial arts groups were members of the clandestine resistance movement who provided neighbourhood security from Indonesian army and militias. They continue to demand the status they once enjoyed as protectors (Scambary 2013). During 2006, many of these members reprised their roles as protectors of their communities and became part of the generalised violence. Many of them risked their lives and missed out on education and other opportunities during the occupation and in the emergency years that followed 1999. Unlike the FALINTIL fighters, who received medals and pensions, these men have not been similarly recognised and compensated (see Kent chapter this volume) and are seeking to assert their masculinity in less positive ways. The 2013–2015 insurrection of ex-guerrilla Mauk Moruk (Paulino Gama) is another example of ongoing political instability due to confrontations between the militarised male elite. Moruk and some of his supporters were eventually slain ex-judiciously by national security forces (Amnesty International 2016: 363) again creating civic insecurity. At the end of his presidency in 2017, Tau Matan Ruak recognised the effects on the government of his military-style leadership and the ongoing conflict between himself and other male leaders. A characteristic of military people is being too up-front, and lacking diplomacy. It’s a flaw of mine that causes embarrassment. Now I’m having to learn to do things differently, but before you learn, others have to take you how you are.2 Yet, the real consequence of conflict between the male elites is not embarrassment, but sporadic violence and civil unrest, and the structural violence of poverty caused by holding 233

Sara Niner

up national development. Recent political intransigence and political factionalism between the male elites has again delayed national development plans with the calling of a 2018 election only six months after the previous election. Due to lack of cohesion with their political allies, the Fretilin government lost control of parliament and was unable govern. A new ­opposition party alliance blocked the government’s budget until they called for new elections ­(Fundasaun Mahein 2018). What is also significant in these repeating episodes of conflict between this militarised male elite are the outcomes flagged by Enloe (2004) of the normalisation of the dominance and privileging of men and the near-total absence of ­women’s public or political participation.

Gendered violence All over the world, the most fraught issue in advocating for gender equality is combatting domestic violence. Yet, what if research into local attitudes demonstrates that domestic violence, or the physical punishment of women by their male partners, is as acceptable to women in the community (who are mostly its victims) as it is by men (who are mostly the perpetrators). Moreover, what if most adults believe, as in many cultures around the world, that physical punishment is necessary as a mechanism to teach right from wrong, and that this is the well-spring for the tolerance of violence, not just between men and women, but between children and adults. Nearly 70% of children in school have experienced a teacher beating them with a stick, whilst over half have also experienced being beaten with a stick by their parents (UNICEF 2006). Various surveys and studies have concluded that a majority also accept a husband’s right to physically punish his wife if she contravenes certain gender roles and expectations (Niner et al. 2013; Taft and Watson 2013). In this way, the whole community is tolerant of violence and understand it as righteous punishment for contravening society’s rules and for the purposes of education (baku hanorin). Gender-based violence (GBV) must be addressed holistically across the prevailing social order and attitudes to the use of a spectrum of violence more generally. A 2013 study into masculinity with 500 young men assessed their attitudes towards gender relations and equality. Their dominant form of expressed masculinity was tough, aggressive, virile and heterosexual (Niner et al. 2013: 49). Men became more aggressive and less gender equitable as they got older. Whilst just about all young men agreed with the broad gender equality statements, they showed a lack of commitment to equitable gender relations within the domestic sphere and preferred the maintenance of traditional values which confer power and status attributed to masculinity and age (Niner et al. 2013: 69). Violence against women statistics from the 2010 National Demographic and Health ­Survey (NDS 2010) reported that of 2,951 women surveyed in the domestic and interpersonal ­v iolence module, 38% had experienced physical violence from the age of 15, with 80% of those events involving a current or former husband or partner (NDS 2010: 243). Overall, just 6% of ever-married women reported that they had initiated physical violence against their current or former husbands. Of the men surveyed, 80% agreed with at least one reason for a man being justified in beating his wife (71% agreed with ‘if a wife neglected the ­children’; 44% with ‘arguing with a husband’) and women held remarkably similar views (NDS 2010: 213). The main form of GBV in Timor-Leste, as it is globally, is overwhelmingly physical abuse perpetrated by a husband or partner towards his wife or partner. Again these figures must be contextualised by the normalisation of violence in contemporary society. The 2013 masculinity study also revealed a pattern of blaming women victims for the violence men perpetrated against them, along with high levels of acceptance of public sexual 234

Mane ho feto kompleta malu

harassment and forced sex (Niner et al. 2013: 37). Supporting this finding was data revealed in a 2015 study that reported 839 randomly selected men (18–49 years old) between one in five and one in three (22%–33%) said they had perpetrated partner and/or n ­ on-partner rape at least once in their life. Of the men who had raped, most (68%) said that their ­motivation was sexual entitlement, fun, entertainment or boredom (TAF 2016: 22). Yet, this shocking ­admission maybe linked to even higher levels of sexual abuse of the men themselves. An alarming 42% of the 839 men surveyed reported being sexually abused before the age 18, which is nearly double the rate that a corresponding group of women reported (TAF 2016: 23).3 It is not clear and this deserves more research, but it seems unlikely that these young boys were sexually abused by girls or women but by older boys or men from within their own families and communities. It may be concluded, although the research does not address it, that the perpetrators were once victims themselves and are perpetuating cycles of violence as described here in relation to South Africa: Threatened masculinities reproduced through repeated traumatic events ceaselessly r­ econstruct the body politic in their image: collective and individual acts of ­v iolence, expressions of dominance impelled by past and present wounds, by fear, by the ­u rgent demands of vulnerable, wounded, senses of self… ‘violence as a reassertion of masculinity’. (Wardrop 2009: 123) Wardrop’s (2009) psychologising is an attempt to make sense of a culture of rape and is one worthy of much more consideration in Timor-Leste than it has received so far. An affirmation of infinitely more positive masculinities (Cahn and Ni Aolain 2010: ­120–121) is also apparent in Timor-Leste. One model is the Asosiasaun Mane Kontra Violensia, the ‘Men’s Association Against Violence’, founded by 20 concerned men in 2002. This small group of men and other groups who have formed since this time, along with other individual men who question the status quo, are challenging the widely accepted norms of male privilege, power and use of violence (Araújo 2004). Nonetheless, such an important job should not be left up to individuals and under-resourced non-governmental organisations. Positively too there is a growing contemporary acceptance of international norms and values relating to gender equality (Hall 2009; Niner et al. 2013; Trembath et al. 2010) and this too deserves more attention. These norms are advocated for by international agencies such as UN Women through instruments such as the international convention CEDAW, the Beijing Platform of Action, and the old Millennium Development Goals and the new 2016 Sustainable Development Goals. This international lobby works with national governments, local organisations, agencies and women’s networks, to achieve ‘gender justice’ all over the world. Yet, many in the Timorese government and civil society do not accept that there is any injustice or inequality in their new nation even in face of the above statistics. More work needs to be done to challenge existing knowledge and social values in locally meaningful ways (Trembath et al. 2010).

Reflections on the future of gender relations This article has explained gender relations in Timor-Leste as the result of historical and cultural influences drawn from both indigenous, colonial, anti-colonial and postcolonial histories. Conflict and globalisation have had a significant impact, as has the recently introduced paradigm of international aid and development. These influences are imbricated and 235

Sara Niner

affect individuals and communities in idiosyncratic and unique ways. Individual identity and agency can never be discounted, especially in a place where so many have fought so long and hard for their independence. New gender expressions continue to emerge in the rapidly changing environment as the 2017 LGBTI parade in Dili demonstrated. Women’s sacred power, as revered in indigenous cosmologies, can be understood as symbolic rather than significant in contemporary, lived gender relations. However, women’s association with the ‘inside’ or private domain is reflected in contemporary Timorese society, where women find status primarily in their domestic roles as wives and mothers, rather than as leaders or decision-makers in the public, political and professional domain. Whilst the customary precedence afforded the feminine principle works largely on a symbolic, rather than a practical level, a revitalisation of the ancient sacred power of the female, the feto maromak, could be a site of challenge to the status quo. In Timor-Leste society, female leaders have often been beholden to their male political patrons, just as they were during the long war of independence. Fallen female political leaders such as Lucia Lobato, Micato and Emilia Pires are examples of what can happen to women operating in an aggressively competitive patriarchal political system. Yet, this environment may be reaching tipping point with a critical mass of women in parliament, indebted to a robust quota system, becoming ever more experienced and self-assured. For example in 2010, female parliamentarians, along with the wider women’s movement, were able to ensure the introduction of the Lei Contra Violencia Domestica (Law Against Domestic Violence) and able to oversee the updated National Action Plan on Gender Based Violence and its budget. The reverberations throughout government of policies to support this law are still being felt, as are responses to it amongst civil society. Yet, the dominance of a hegemonic militarised masculinity persists, reproduced by the elite leadership of veteran men who, although ageing, remain undeniably powerful. Their leadership is linked to a tough, aggressive masculinity displayed by the majority of young men in Timor today that has significant negative implications for their own health and wellbeing, and for their families and society more generally. However, the acceptance of gender equality as a general principle amongst Timor-Leste’s youthful population represents positive change. Programmes of gender justice work towards the emancipation of both women and men because, as well as the barriers and discrimination that women face, men are also restricted in their lives by rigid gender roles and expectations. Living with expectations to behave in certain ways, including measures of success, shouldering the responsibility for family and ­decision-making, can lead to much stress and health and psychological problems for men. This costs society and government millions of dollars in all sectors and holds back national development. Men advocating alongside Timor’s women’s movement for gender equality, including an end to violence against women, are woefully under-resourced and much in need of more national and international solidarity and support to carry out their important work.

Notes 1 There are three matrilineal groups in Timor-Leste, the Bunak (from Bobonaro and Covalima), the Tetun-Terik (the south coastal region) and the Galolien (living in Manatuto although l­ittle ­information exists about them). The first two communities make up about 12% of the total ­population (Narciso and Henriques 2010). 2 In the original Portugusese, ‘Uma das características dos militares é ser frontal demais, não ser diplomático. Isso cria embaraço. É um defeito meu. Agora estou a ter que aprender, mas antes de aprender os outros vão ter que levar’, explicou entre risos. Lusa (Antonio Sampaio). Presidente ­timorense considera normal a tensão política e nega ataques pessoais (C/VÍDEO), 10 March 2017, Díli.

236

Mane ho feto kompleta malu 3 These statistics are from The Asia Foundation (TAF 2016) report. It continues, ‘Overall, three-quarters of women (72%) and men in both sites (77−78%) experienced at least one form of physical and/or sexual abuse before age 18. Nearly half of all women (49%) and over one-third of men in both sites (36%) had witnessed their mother experience physical violence from her male intimate partner’ (p. 2).

Bibliography Abrantes, Laura Soares and Beba Sequeira (eds). (2010). Secrecy: The Key to Independence: It’s Better to Have No Title Than to Have No Nation, Dili: Blue Mountains East Timor Sisters. ADB/UNIFEM (Asian Development Bank/United Nations Development Fund for Women). (2005). Gender and Nation Building in Timor-Leste: County Gender Assessment, Manila: ADB/UNIFEM, Available at www.adb.org/sites/default/files/institutional-document/32243/cga-timor-leste.pdf (accessed 30 November 2017). Almeida, Miguel Vale de. (2008). Portugal’s Colonial Complex: From Colonial Lusotropicalism to Postcolonial Lusophony, Paper presented at Queen’s Postcolonial Research Forum, Belfast: Queen’s University. Alves, Maria Domingas Fernandes, Laura Soares Abrantes and Filomena B. Reis. (2003). Hakarek No Ran: Written in Blood, Dili: Office for the Promotions of Equality, Prime Minister’s Office, ­Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste. Cuhna, Teresa. (2017). ‘Beyond the Timorese Nationalist Orthodoxy: The ‘Herstory’ of Bi-Murak’, In Women and the Politics of Gender in Post-conflict Timor-Leste: Between Heaven and Earth, Sara Niner (ed.), pp. 46–64, Women in Asia Series, London: Routledge. Amnesty International. (2016). Amnesty International Report 2015/16: The State of the World’s Human Rights, Amnesty International. APSC-TL (Asia Pacific Support Collective-Timor Leste with SEPI and MSS). (2008). Segredu: Xáve ba Ukun Rasik-an, Dili (quotes reproduced here from the English language manuscript Secrecy: The Key to Independence). Araújo, Mario. (2004). ‘“Liberation for Everyone, Not Just Men”: A Case Study of the Men’s ­A ssociation against Violence (AMKV) in Timor Leste’, In Gender Equality and Men: Learning from Practice, Oxford: Oxfam, Available at www.kijimatakayuki.com/index.php/library/download/ asin=0855985143&type=stream (accessed 30 November 2017). Araujo, Mario. (2012). Perjuangan dari Budaya Ketidak-adilan Jender Menuju Proses Keadlian Jender (The Struggle for a Gender Just Society in Timor-Leste), Becora, Timor-Leste: BROSIS. Cahn, Naomi R. and Fionnuala D. Ni Aolain. (2010). Gender, Masculinities and Transition in Conflicted Societies, 44 New Eng. Law Review 1. Carey, Peter. (2001). ‘Challenging Tradition, Changing Society: The Role of Women in East Timor’s Transition to Independence’, Lusotopie, 1: 255–267. Connell, Raewyn W. (2002). ‘The History of Masculinity’, In The Masculinity Studies Reader, Rachel Adams and David Savran (eds.), pp. 245–261, Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Conway, J. (2010). Step by Step: Women of East Timor, Stories of Resistance and Survival, Darwin: Charles Darwin University Press. Costa-Pinto, Maya and Andrea Whittaker. (2010) ‘East Timorese Women in Australia: Community, Gender and Identity’, Asian and Pacific Migration Journal, 19(4): 501–524. Cristalis, Irena and Cristalis Scott. (2005). Independent Women: The Story of Women’s Activism in TimorLeste, London: Catholic Institute for International Relations. Cummins, Deborah. (2011). ‘The Problem of Gender Quotas: Women’s Representatives on ­Timor-Leste’s Suku Councils’, Development in Practice, 21(1): 85–95. Enloe, Cynthia H. (2004). The Curious Feminist: Searching for Women in a New Age of Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fox, James (ed.). (1980). The Flow of Life: Essays on Eastern Indonesia, Cambridge, MA: Harvard ­University Press. Fox, James. (1982). ‘The Great Lord Rests at the Centre: The Paradox of Powerlessness in ­European-Timorese Relations’, Canberra Anthropology, 5:22–33. Franks, Emma. (1996). ‘Women and Resistance in East Timor: “The Centre, as They Say, Knows Itself by the Margins”’, Women’s Studies International Forum 19(1/2):155–168.

237

Sara Niner Fundasaun Mahein. (2018). ‘Political Deadlock Reflects Politicians Egos’, Dili: Fundasaun Mahein, Available at www.fundasaunmahein.org/2018/01/24/political-deadlock-reflects-politicians-egos/. Gunn, Geoffrey. (1999). Timor Loro Sae: 500 Years. Macau: Livros do Oriente. Gusmão, Xanana. (1994). ‘Cipinang Prison, September 1994’, In To Resist Is to Win: The Autobiography of Xanana Gusmão, Sara Niner (ed.), pp. 3–68, Kew East, VIC: David Lovell Publishing. Guttman, Matthew C. (1997). ‘Trafficking in Men’, Annual Review of Anthropology, 26: 385–409. Hagerdal, Hans and Douglas Kammen. (2017). ‘The Lost Queens of Timor’, In Women and the Politics of Gender in Post-Conflict East Timor: Between Heaven and Earth, Sara Niner (ed.), ASSA Women in Asia Series. Abingdon: Routledge. Hall, Nina. (2009). ‘East Timorese Women Challenge Domestic Violence’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 44(2): 309–325. Harris Rimmer, Susan. (2005) ‘The Roman Catholic Church and the Rights of East Timorese Women’, In Mixed Blessing: Women, Religion and the Law in Southeast Asia, C. Evan and A. Whiting (eds.), pp. 261–281. Leiden: Brill Press, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Hicks, David. (2004). Tetum Ghosts and Kin: Fertility and Gender in East Timor, Long Grove, IL: Waveland Press. Joshi, Vijaya and Maggie Haertsch. 2003. Prevalence of Gender-Based Violence in East Timor. Dili: International Rescue Committee, July. Loney, Hannah. (2015). ‘The Target of a Double Exploitation’: Gender and Nationalism in Portuguese Timor, 1974–75’, Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific, no. 37, March, Available at http://intersections.anu.edu.au/issue37/loney.html. Macintyre, Martha. (2017). ‘Introduction: Flux and change in Melanesian Gender Relations’, In Transformations of Gender in Melanesia, Martha Macintyre and Ceridwen Spark (eds.), pp. 1–21. Canberra, ACT: ANU Press. Meager, Sara. (2014). Toward a Feminist Political Economy of Wartime Sexual Violence, International Feminist Journal of Politics, 17(3): 416–434. Bonaparte, Rosa ‘Muki’. (1976) ‘Statement by Popular Organisation of Timorese Women’, 18 September 1975, Direct Action, (4 March): 7. Modvig, Jens, J. Pagaduan-Lopez, Jessica Rodenburg, C.M.D. Salud, R.V. Cabigon and Carlo Irwin A. Panelo. (2000). ‘Torture and Trauma in Post-Conflict East Timor’, The Lancet, 356(9243): 1763–1765. Myat Thu, Pyone., Steffanie Scott and Kimberly P. Van Neil. (2017). ‘Gendered Access to Customary Land in East Timor’, Women and the Politics of Gender in Post-conflict Timor-Leste: Between Heaven and Earth, Sara Niner (ed.), pp. 97–112, Women in Asia Series, London: Routledge. Narciso, Vanda and Pedro Henriques. (2010). ‘Women and Land in Timor-Leste: Issues in Gender and Development’, Indian Journal of Gender Studies, 17(1): 62. NDS (National Statistics Directorate). (2010). Timor-Leste Demographic and Health Survey 2009–10. Dili: NSD, Ministry of Finance Timor-Leste and ICF Macro. Niner, Sara. (2008) ‘Reinado a Product of Timorese Trauma’, Eureka Street, 18(4), Available at www. eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=5664 (accessed 22 February 2018). Niner, Sara. (2009). Xanana Gusmão: Leader of the Struggle for Independent Timor-Leste. Melbourne, VIC: Australian Scholarly Publishing. Niner, Sara. (2011). ‘Hakat Klot, Narrow Steps: Negotiating Gender in Post-conflict Timor-Leste’, International Feminist Journal of Politics, 13(3): 413–435. Niner, Sara. (2013). ‘Bisoi – a Veteran of Timor-Leste’s Independence Movement’, In Women in Southeast Asian Nationalist Movements, Sue Blackburn and Helen Ting (eds.), pp. 226–249, Singapore: NUS Press. Niner, Sara, Ann Wigglesworth, Abel Boavida dos Santos, Mateus Tilman and Dharmalingam Arunachalam. (2013). Perceptions of Gender and Masculinities of Youth in Timor-Leste Baseline Study Final Report, Dili: Paz y Desarrollo (PyD). Available at http://profiles.arts.monash.edu.au/ sara-niner/files/2012/03/MONASH-Timor-Leste-Report-Final.pdf Niner, Sara, Kathryn Cornwell and Cristina Benevides. (2015). Gender Analysis of Oxfam Savings and Loans Groups in Timor-Leste: Research Report, Melbourne: Oxfam, Available at http:// profiles.arts.monash.edu.au/sara-niner/files/2012/03/MONASH-Timor-Leste-Report-Final.pdf Ospina, Sofi. (2006). Participation of Women in Politics and Decision-Making in Timor-Leste: A Recent History. Dili: UNIFEM, Available at http://archives.cap.anu.edu.au/cdi_anu_edu_au/.TL/200607/2006_TL_Ospina.UNIFEM.REP.pdf (accessed 30 November 2017).

238

Mane ho feto kompleta malu Ospina, Sofi. (2009). Cultural Attitudes and Practice in Timor-Leste under the Lens of Selected CEDAW Articles, Dili: UNIFEM. Ospina, Sofi and Tanja Hohe. (2002). Traditional Power Structures and Local Governance in East Timor: A Case Study of the Community Empowerment Project (CEP). Geneva: Graduate Institute of ­Development Studies, Available at http://graduateinstitute.ch/files/live/sites/iheid/files/sites/­ developpement/shared/developpement/362/itineraires%20IUED/IUED_EC5_Ospina_Timor. pdf (accessed 30 November 2017). Ostergaard, Lene. (2005). Timor–Leste Youth Social Analysis Mapping and Youth Institutional Assessment. Dili: Commissioned for the World Bank. Rede, Feto (with Fokupers and APSC-TL). (2007). Hau Fo Midar; Hau Simu Moruk (I Give Sweet; I Get Sour). Dili: Rede Feto, Fokupers and APSC-TL. Ryter, Loren. (1998). ‘Pemuda Pancasila: The Last Loyalist Men of Suharto’s Free Order’, Indonesia, 66: 45–73. Scambary, James. (2009). ‘Trapped in the Legacy of the Past’, Inside Indonesia, 96. Available at http:// insideindonesia.org/content/view/1193/47/ (accessed January 2010). Scambary, James. (2013) ‘Conflict and resilience in an urban squatter settlement in Dili, East Timor’, Urban Studies, 50(10): 1935–1950. Scambary, James. (2017). ‘A Road to Nowhere? The Birth of a Neo-Patrimonial, Clientist State in East Timor’, In The Changing Face of Corruption in the Asia Pacific, Chris Rowley and Marie dela (eds.), pp. 267–280. Oxford: Elsevier. Scheiner, Charles. (2014). ‘Can the Petroleum Fund Exorcise the Resource Curse from ­Timor-Leste?’ La’o Hamutuk, 1 June, Available at www.laohamutuk.org/econ/exor/14ExorcisePaper.htm ­(accessed 30 November 2017). Siapno, Jacqueline. (2000). ‘Gender, Nationalism and the Ambiguity of Female Agency in Aceh, ­Indonesia and East Timor’, In Frontline Feminisms: Women War and Resistance, Waller and Rycenga (eds.), New York, London: Garland Publishing. TAF (The Asia Foundation). (2016). Understanding Violence against Women and Children in Timor-Leste: Findings from the Nabilan Baseline Study, Summary Report, Dili: The Asia Foundation. Taft, Angela and Lyndsey Watson. (2013). Violence against Women in Timor-Leste: Secondary Analysis of the 2009–10 Demographic Health Survey, Melbourne, VIC: Mother and Child Health Research, La Trobe University. Therik, Tom. (2004). Wehali – The Female Land: Traditions of a Timorese Ritual Centre. Canberra, ACT: Australian National University and Pandanus Books. Traube, Elizabeth. (1995). ‘Mambai Perspectives on Colonialism and Decolonization,’ In East Timor at the Crossroads, Peter Carey and Carter Bentley (eds.), p. 46, London: SSRC & Cassell. Trembath, Anna, Damian Grenfell and Carmenesa Moniz Noronha. (2010). Impacts of National NGO Gender Programming in Local Communities in Timor-Leste, Melbourne, VIC: Globalism Research Centre, RMIT University, Available at http://mams.rmit.edu.au/e4vx5w6pot70z.pdf (accessed 30 November 2017). Trindade, Jose ‘Josh’. (2009). Feto Mak Maromak: Traditional Concepts of Gender in Timor-Leste. ­Paper presented at Understanding Timor-Leste: Timor-Leste Studies Association Conference, Dili: ­University of Timor-Leste. Trindade, Jose ‘Josh’. (2012). ‘Colonialism Culture and Gender in Timor-Leste’, Karau Dikur, Available at http://karaudikur.blogspot.com.au/2012/09/colonialism-culture-and-gender-in-timor. html (accessed 30 November 2017). UN (United Nations). (2010). The Millennium Development Goals Report 2010, New York: United Nations, Available at www.un.org/millenniumgoals/pdf/MDG%20Report%202010%20En%20 r15%20-low%20res%2020100615%20-.pdf (accessed 30 November 2017). UNDP (United Nations Development Programme). (2016). ‘Human Development Reports, Country Profile Timor-Leste’, New York: UNDP, Available at http://hdr.undp.org/en/countries/profiles/ TLS (accessed 30 November 2017). UNICEF (United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund). (2006). Speak Nicely to Me – A Study on Practices and Attitudes about Discipline of Children in Timor-Leste’, Dili: UNICEF. UNICEF (United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund). (2015). Information by Country: Timor-Leste, Available at www.unicef.org/infobycountry/Timorleste_statistics.html (accessed 30 November 2017).

239

Sara Niner Wardrop, Joan. (2009). ‘Notes from a Tense Field: Threatened Masculinities in South Africa’, Social Identities, 15(1): 113–130. DOI:10.1080/13504630802693307 Wilson, Ian. (2002). The Politics of Inner Power, The Practice of Pencak Silat in West Java, Unpublished PhD Thesis, Perth: Murdoch University. WHO (World Health Organisation). (2014). ‘Estimated Deaths (‘000) by Cause, Sex, and WHO Member State, 2012’, Available at www.who.int/healthinfo/global_burden_disease/estimates/en/ index1.html (accessed 30 November 2017).

240

18 Paths to infinity Ancestorship, origin narratives and differentiation Susana de Matos Viegas

In November 2016, Rui Graça Feijó and I organized a round table in the Archive and Museum of the Timorese Resistance in Dili, centred around a photo exhibition we both curated. It comprehended a number of images of funerary posts named in Fataluku arapou cau1 (Fat: buffalo head), consisting of several metres high wooden posts with skulls of buffalos sacrificed at mortuary ceremonies (Figure 18.1). In the ensuing debate, two of our Fataluku interlocutors insisted that putting such funerary posts next to a tomb was not universal amongst Fataluku-speaking peoples. Amongst the variety of reasons aired by them and the audience, the social status of the deceased, the material wealth of his family, and the fact that some Fataluku were baptized (a condition that could militate against this possibility) have generated wide acceptance. Our two Fataluku friends participating in the round table, whom we talked to on several occasions over the years, also mentioned that only people from certain origin groups or ratu – agnatic origin groups or clans amongst the Fataluku – 2 would put arapou cau next to their tombs. They were publicly expressing the idea we had so often heard during our fieldwork that funerary posts with animal skulls are effectively only erected behind the tomb of a person who belongs to certain ratu/origin group and are even forbidden amongst other specific origin groups. In this chapter, I show that this difference in funerary practices meets differences in origin narratives and should be understood as a tendency to what James Fox (2005) called a ‘celebration of spiritual differentiation’, sustained in a ‘multiplicity of origins’, which he argues to be widespread across Southeast Asia and the Austronesian world (Fox 1996: 231). In his numerous writings on the centrality of the origins amongst Austronesian peoples, Fox underlines one aspect that will be the main focus of this chapter, that ‘[t]he population of many of these societies regard themselves as derived of different ancestral origins or even of different classes of creation’ (2005: 8651). Across ethnolinguistic groups in Timor-Leste, houses and clans have emerged from a considerable diversity of origins: from the sky or a specific geological format where the sky and a high mountain were linked; from the sea, travelling by boat sometimes helped by a crocodile; or emerged from beneath the land. Myths of origin are in Timor-Leste as in so many other parts of the world a reference to experiencing history (e.g. Gow 2001). They belong to a field in which religiosity and sociality strongly intersect. Amongst the Fataluku in Lautém, as McWilliam (2007a) has commented, ‘endemic inter-clan rivalry and warfare’ marks history. This rivalry is clearly sustained in 241

Susana de Matos Viegas

‘their frequently contested histories of segmentation, dispute and dispersal’ (McWilliam 2007a: 1125, 1119). Elizabeth Traube who first did fieldwork in Timor-Leste in the early 1970s and later during the phase of consolidation of independence and freedom in the new millennium, gives an inspiring insight into how history is lived in Timor-Leste by either emphasizing or downplaying diversity between different origin groups. Traube (1986) shows the importance of difference between origin groups amongst the Mambai in the colonial period. But she also notices that by then they downplayed such differences in many instances, insisting that they were all part of a ‘single story’, and investing in a ‘mythology of common origin’, maintaining a collective self-image that ‘shapes their view of their relations to other ethnic groups’ (Traube 1986: 27; 2011: 120). When she returned to Timor after 2000, Traube admits she was surprised to not find the same expressions of unity, but rather the ‘proliferation of radically diverse, conflicting accounts’ (Traube 2011: 120). In this chapter, I propose to think about the role of ‘radical’ diversity between origin narratives in Timor-Leste as an ethnographic perspective on ways of experiencing history. The aim is to explore the value of difference as a chain in the understanding of historicity for the Timorese, and the entanglements between spiritual differentiation and subsequent configurations of sociality in contemporary Timor-Leste.

Differentiation and origin narratives across Timor-Leste Several ethnographies written in different historical periods have shown how origin n ­ arratives express key features of life and its diverse origin in Timor-Leste. Louis Berthe and Claudine Friedberg in the 1960s underlined the existence of a structural differentiation amongst origin narratives in several Papuan language Bunak speakers’ villages. They called this p­ henomenon ‘village particularlism’: ‘The inhabitants of each village tend to consider their own myths as unique, secret, and belonging exclusively to them; they have no interest to articulate them with those of neighbouring villages’ (Friedberg 1972: 21). Louis Berthe proposes a direct identification between the diversity of origin narratives and unilinear d­ escent groups or ‘lineages’ (lignages) (Berthe 1972: 51–83). A perspective of diversity as a field of variations over a unified original myth marks Berthe’s theoretical thinking. Although he acknowledges that ‘every lineage possesses its own cultural patrimony in correspondence with particular myths’, Berthe ends up arguing that such differences in the narratives of each lineages ought to be interpreted as ‘complementary parts of a whole’ (Berthe 1972: 85). Berthe (1972) ends up treating differentiation amongst Bunak mythical texts as variants of the same people or ethnolinguistic group, integrating differences as part of the ­Levi-Straussian paradigm. Both underline, however, that origin narratives are more than a source of symbolic inspiration, and constitute a significant mark of Bunak everyday life. As Claudine Friedberg wrote, ‘their real territory is that of their myths’ (1972: 35). As we shall see, one of the common features of Bunak narratives is that they are founded on the idea that the earth/world emerged from a sequence of events that took place in a ‘superior world’ (Berthe 1972: 87). In his recent ethnography on the very same speakers of the Papuan language Bunak, Lucio Sousa shows that amongst them a narrative of origin exists which can be unified around a quite well-defined axis – ‘the mountain, the highlands, towards the sea and the plains’ (2010: 98). The very name of the Tapo population is replaced in ritual contexts by a Bunak language expression – pan po: mug po – which means ‘the holy heaven and the holy land, the navel of heaven, the centre of the earth’ (Sousa 2010: 100). Just as in the origin narrative ‘Ancestors Itineraries’, collected by Berthe and Friedberg in 242

Paths to infinity

the 1960s, the emergence of human beings amongst contemporary Bunak results from the ­creation of dry land at such an high altitude that brings heaven and earth close together. The gap that was ‘bridged by means of a bamboo stepladder (…) making it possible to travel from the one to the other side’ (Sousa 2010: 100). The first dry land was made of mountains around which the Bunak people still live today. In the case of the Bunak from Tapo in Timor-Leste, the mountain that originally linked heaven and earth is known as Lakus, ‘around which the first house and the first field were established, and where were located the initial feats of their superior ancestors’ (Sousa 2010: 102). Lucio Sousa maintains that the geographical location of Lakus indicates a way, an orientation for a mountainous chain ‘somewhere’ (cf. Sousa 2010: 100). The primeval world emerging from this geological constellation related to the emergence of the first portion of dry land. It is, for the Bunak, a world originally ‘out of order’ in which ‘everyone speaks – men, animals, plants, and the earth itself ’, order being achieved by means of silencing all beings except the humans (Sousa 2010: 102; see also Palmer and Kehi 2012: 459). Sousa (2010) argues that contemporary Bunak, in sum, do acknowledge a unity in their origin narratives associated with the mountains surrounding them. At the same time, however, he emphasizes that competing stories are maintained and disputed amongst different houses. As I have referred above, Traube has shown that in the 1970s, amongst the Mambai, there was also a ‘insistence on wholeness’ (1986: 35) in the different origin narratives, as Mount Ramelau, precisely located in the middle of Mambai land, is identified by all as the original place of the ensemble of Mambai speakers: Mount Ramelau in the central interior, which Mambai call Tat Mai Lau, is identified as the first dry land. Originally surrounded by ‘water and sea’, the mountain centres the cosmos, and there at the centre Mother Earth brings forth the diverse inhabitants of the land. (Traube 2011: 121) Traube also acknowledges that secrecy is a key political discourse between different Mambai houses that assert different version of mythic narratives. As I have already mentioned, she was surprised that in 2007 she had not found the same expressions of unity amongst the Mambai that was so clearly stated in the colonial period. On the contrary, she found an accent on diverse, conflicting accounts of origin stories (Traube 2011: 120). Contemporary ethnographies on Timor-Leste also allow us to think of transformations arising from different historical contexts (cf. Viegas and Feijó 2017). Judith Bovensiepen carried out fieldwork amongst the Idaté-speaking people in Funar (sub-district of Laclubar) in 2005–2006. When the Idaté returned to their place of origin in the 1990s, which they had been forced to abandon under the Indonesian rule in the late 1970s, a ‘re-enactment of people’s mythic unification with the land took place’ (Bovensiepen 2015: 163). The Idaté conceive their origins as an emergence from the land, implying dynamics of firstcomers versus newcomers: ‘The various origin narratives are in competition with one another, yet they are all versions of a foundation myth based on interactions between autochthonous original inhabitants and immigrants or late arrivals who are connected to an outside realm’ (Bovensiepen 2015: 34). Bovensiepen also stresses, however, that ‘these autochthonous groups are thought to have separate origins, having been generated from different ancestral siblings at different sites in the landscape’ (2015: 31). Such differentiation sustains her questioning of the final validity of the concept of ethnolinguistic group as a relevant unit of sociality and identity in TimorLeste – a concept that I address in the concluding section of this chapter. She wrote, 243

Susana de Matos Viegas

The anthropological literature concerning Timor-Leste frequently divides the population into a number of ethnolinguistic groups. In many cases, such as those of the Mambai or the Tetum, this seems to coincide with the self-identification of the given group. However, even though they share a common language (Idaté), the people in the Laclubar subdistrict did not use their language as a self-selected identifying label. They did not, therefore, call themselves the ‘Idaté’ or ‘Idaté people’. (2015: 30) Clearly building on the paradigm of House Societies (cf. Carsten and Hugh-Jones 1995), Bovensiepen argues that the divergence amongst houses create, in her opinion, an ‘heterotopy’, where one single physical location can be disputed by various groups (Bovensiepen 2014: 66). A structuring aspect of differentiation emerging from several passages of Bovensiepen’s argument is addressed from the standpoint of the secrecy as an axis of dispute of power between different houses. She makes clear that it is not possible to join people together from different houses to spell out their own versions of the origin narratives. She, for instance, described a moment in which she followed the advice of a female field assistant and organized ‘a communal meeting with all the important ritual speakers of Funar’ in order to find ‘the most truthfull account’ (Bovensiepen 2014: 64). They of course did not come to the meeting, which she convincingly shows is a result of the fact that they were perfectly aware of their diversity of origin narratives and did not wish neither to collapse that difference nor to confront each other with narratives that were in themselves conceived as universal. Later on, she would listen to their narratives without any problem – but always in individual conversations with each one of them. As Traube (1986) has also argued, secrecy and dispute over the firstcomers is of course meaningful here. But another dimension resulting from this type of situations of concealment is connected to what I am calling here a plea for differentiation. It implies maintaining history as a source of diversity, instead of trying to conciliate diversity into one single story. An origin from underneath the land has been widely acknowledged for a large area from Funar to Laclubar, Viqueque and Baucau, encompassing different ethnolinguistic groups. According to Lisa Palmer, who did research in different villages in that region, in the primeval time, which is frequently described as ‘a time before languages’ all was water until the first lands emerged in Timor-Leste in the mountains (cf. Palmer 2015: 63). Locating her analysis in a narrative, she was told in the village of Bahu (Baucau region) by an important lia na’in (lit.: lord of words), Palmer sheds light on the intense relation between the underground world, the sea and the emergence of the world from underneath which is transversal to Makassae and Waima’a speakers. She writes, ‘In the beginning Timor was created by a foot sparring pair of brothers and sister birds (M: Ketu). Their sparring kicked back the sea and so created the first dry land in the form of three mountains: Ramelau, Cabalaki and Matebian’ (Palmer 2015: 63). The argument advanced by Lisa Palmer, centred on a concept of a ‘hydrosocial cycle’ (2015: 46) formed by ‘spiritual ecologies connected to spring water’ (2015: 48), is important to understand a web of relations between various villages and different ethnolinguistic groups in this region. Some arrived from across the sea and others emerging from underground. When Palmer considers the origin narratives of each of the origin groups or Houses, she emphasises principles of differentiation between each origin group. The origin House Kai Leki has emerged ‘through the water out of the ground’ (2015: 71). In this case, ‘at a time in the distant past, three brothers emerged from the earth clinging to the back of a buffalo’ (Palmer 2015: 72). In the House Wai Riu, which benefits from detailed analysis in her 244

Paths to infinity

narrative, people have emerged ‘from the ground through a cave’, whilst the members of the origin House, Wani descended from Mount Matebian when the world was all darkness bringing with them ‘water in bamboo lengths’ (2015: 84). Just like in Funar, the diverse contexts analysed by Palmer emphasize the dispute for precedence, giving voice to the widespread importance of origins and dynamics of hegemony sustained in the ‘stranger king’ complex (cf. Sahlins 1985). In Timor-Leste, this is sustained, as Fox puts it, in a dynamic of making the outsider the (inside) ruler, frequently through a process in which ‘an earlier ancestor who left for a period of time and on his arrival is received back into society as a “returning outsider”’ (cf. Fox 2008: 202). The exercise of compared ethnography developed in this section can bring insights on the relevance of the multiplicity of origins. This is of course complementary and not a substitute to the meaningful outsider/insider dynamics discussed in the ‘stranger king’ literature, where precedence and autochthony are emphasized (cf. Fox 2008). A multiplicity of origins is, however, relevant to explore further Timorese senses of historicity, whilst also having important regional resonances across Southeast Asia. To give one emblematic example, Gregory Forth describes the Sumbanese Rindi as people who descend from one kingdom, and yet regard themselves as having multiple origins deriving originally either from the sky or from overseas (Forth 1981: 105). As the typical Austronesian case would dictate, ‘The Rindi seem to have no single comprehensive myth that describes the creation of the world, and what I managed to record comprised various, sometimes disparate accounts of different aspects of the establishment of the present order of things’ (Forth 1981: 89). Forth’s perspective contributes to the conclusion that there is ‘no single’ myth for one specific linguistic speaking area. To think of the different origin narratives signals the importance of differentiation and also, as the next section explores, highlights the connection between life and death, of origin and destiny, which was also at issue in the debate on funerary posts amongst the Fataluku-speaking people mentioned in the introduction.

Source and destiny: mortuary rituals and differentiated origins Ethnographic approaches to Timor-Leste converge on the idea that the identification of the origins of life is articulated with the path of the dead. In his analysis of a vast corpus of origin narratives from the Tetum region, David Hicks considers that a common feature to all those is the ‘coincidence of birth and death in the same place’, which for the Tetum case would be the underworld (1988: 808). The identification between life and death has been widely analysed in terms of the articulation of death with the regeneration of life (e.g., Fox 1980; Hicks 1988). Gregory Forth in his classical monograph on Rindi also argues that life derives from death, which is a return to a point of origin (1981: 201). Forth puts forwards the idea that [a] dead person is said to have gone to the one who made and planted him that is, to the divinity and the first ancestors (…) and the cycle closes only when the deceased later returns-life renewed-to the world of the living. (Forth 1981: 202; see also Hicks 1988: 814) As for the Tetum of Timor-Leste, Hicks states that ‘[t]he first human beings are believed to have issued from the underworld, and to have returned there after death in a cycle reaffirmed symbolically in the rites of passage embracing birth and death’ (Hicks 1988: 809; see also Molnar 2010). Regarded in this light, Hicks continues, ‘locating birth and death in the same place, whether underground, underwater, the west, over the sea, or across the river might 245

Susana de Matos Viegas

then be interpreted as a device intended to make death seem equivalent to life’ (Hicks 1988: 814 also referring to Barnes 1964: 203, 304–307). Traube calls our attention to the ambivalent identification of origin and destiny amongst the Mambai and showing that if the dead are sent ‘on their journey to Nama Rau’ (1986: 41) – one of the origin mountains – ‘my impression was that many people (were) not sure exactly where a spirit goes on its first foray’ (1986: 201). In the Kora Meta ceremony realized amongst the Mambai between one and seven years after an episode of death, the relatives ‘ship the dead’– they send them to be ‘dispatched (toil) to the sea’. There the dead take on ‘different ears/different faces’ (Traube 1980; 1986: 203). Parallel to this, Bovensiepen notes that amongst the Idaté, ‘burial is perceived as a return’ as human beings are considered to have emerged from the land (Bovensiepen 2015: 9). Part of the explanation for the symbolic power of the land – ‘lulik land’ – and its capacity to transform people into prisoners ought to be viewed in this perspective (cf. Bovensiepen 2014: 125). Amongst the Papuan-speaking Bunak who view the creation of the land as the peak of a dry mountain, a ritual is performed many years after one’s death. At that time each House resends its dead to Mot Po – ‘a place on the very top of the neighbouring mountain of Bekali where the ancestors supposedly inhabit’ (Sousa 2010: 214). This action of resending the dead implies a projection in an upward direction, facilitating their return to the origins of the world and to the ancestors. Sousa did not find, however, any detailed descriptions of the sort of existence ancestors enjoy in Mot Po in the sense of an afterlife. He only came across some references of their return to their place of origin, marking very strongly the upward direction they have taken. If death and the origin of life are key axes of sociality, what these ethnographies show is that different mortuary performances correspond to differences in origin narratives. In this regard, Bovensiepen calls our attention to the fact that the members of one of the houses (Lawadu) in Funar were recognized as the ‘owners’ of a specific ‘custom’ (lisan), which consisted of burying the dead in the ground (2015: 36). Integrating the stranger king model, the Idaté in Funar consider that in the remote past the members of this house who had returned to ­Funar were able to become rulers (liurai) of Funar. The reason they became rulers should however be highlighted. Members of the Bamatak House, who were by then established in the region, did not have the ‘custom’ to bury their dead in the ground, that is, they actually were not able/allowed to do it: ‘they used to hang their dead from trees because, they said, the earth had started shaking when they had buried them in the ground’ (Bovensiepen 2015: 36). In sum, they recognize that the Lawadu House as rulers because the Lawadu own the traditional right to bury the dead underground. Here is an explicit example of how the origin story is articulated with a diversity of burial performances and how important it is to integrate origins (underground) and burial practices.

Fataluku differentiation – ratu with and without arapou cau During fieldwork carried out amongst the Fataluku,3 the significance of funerary posts ­arapou cau (lit.: ‘buffalo heads’ – see Figure 18.1) was a focus. Arapou cau are widely disseminated in the landscape of the district of Lautém, the easternmost part of Timor-Leste. Their sculptural relevance and the hollow gaze of the buffalo, and sometimes also horse and oxen skulls, pierced by a wooden post that often reaches several meters high above tombs, catch the attention of foreigners and Timorese from other parts of the country alike. Moreover, mortuary ceremonies and tombs occupy a particularly important role in the lives of the ­Fataluku, reinforcing the centrality of the relations between the living and their ancestors – calu ho papu (lit: grandfather and great-grandfather). 246

Paths to infinity

Figure 18.1 Arapou cau

The region of Lautém integrates a district with the same name, covering 1,813 sq km, and inhabited by roughly 65,000 people, half of which (39,685 according to the census) are Fataluku speakers (Pereira et al. 2015: 2, 22). The district of Lautém has 151 Aldeias (hamlets). Fataluku live in 105 hamlets in three different sub-districts: Tutuala, Lospalos and Lautém. The other 46 hamlets are inhabited by a majority of Makassai- and the Makalero-speaking people, in the sub-districts of Iliomar and Luro (Pereira et al. 2015: 3). One of the clear results of my fieldwork was to realize that only people who belong to certain ratu whose narratives of origin are associated with the beginning of life and the world in an upper level – at the peak of a mountain or a celestial platform – use these funerary posts in their tombs. These are very prominently people from Cailoru, Vacumura, Latuloho and some from Katiratu. McWilliam came across ‘dozens of named ratu in Lautem (with names such as Cailoro Ratu, Latuloho Ratu, Naja Ratu, Lavera Ratu and so on)’, all with ‘contested histories of segmentation, dispute and dispersal across the landscape’. They include some that are but ‘little branches’ of major ones, summing more than 60 named ratu 247

Susana de Matos Viegas

or ratu branches (McWilliam 2011a: 65; 65-fn 6) – a conclusion that my own field material substantiates. Amongst the Fataluku, one finds representative cases of all three types of origins that Fox identifies as common in different Southeast Asia contexts where ‘humans either descended from a heavenly sphere or emerged from earth or sea’ (Fox 2005: 8649). The Fataluku-speaking inhabitants of Tutuala, on the very tip of the island, possess narratives of origin implying their emergence from underground, close to those one finds as predominant in the area of Laclubar, Viqueque and Baucau. The works of O’Connor et al. (2013) and Pannell (2006: 206) amongst the Fataluku of Tutuala point to the fact that ‘people emerge with the land and their sacred animals’ (O’Connor et al. 2013: 211). The Fataluku-speaking people from Cailoru ratu did not emerge from the underground. On the contrary, their symbol is Noipi, the morning star, and they came from the first portion of dry land that is a high mountain located nearby Tutuala, named Nofitu. Those from Naja and from Pairu ratu arrived in Timor across the sea, on a sinking boat assisted to shore by a companionable crocodile. In 2014, in conversation with two men from Assalaino, a village where the great majority of men are from the Cailoru ratu, they explained the fact that the star identifying the Cailoru relates to their origin story, which involves the top of Nofitu mountain. G.:  According to our great-grandfathers (calu ho papu), we did not come from outside the

island of Timor. Many others came by boat, but that is not the case with us. Our first place is located in the easternmost tip of the island. It is called Nofitu [No: ancient or preceeding; fitu: seven]. Our great-grandfathers that remained there were seven in all. Seven men. They stayed there in the mountain that is called Nofitu. We just do not know what year that occurred. S.:  Does that mountain still exist today, or is it a mountain that only existed in those days? G.:  Our ancestors have their tombs up there. (…) Just like a myth, they told us that there is the place our great-grandfather ascended to [van ene van va la] (Assalaino, Julho 2014) In this narrative, a very explicit reference is made to the value of precedence and being autochthonous, when my friend said ‘we did not come from outside the island of Timor’. But the very same narrative highlights another aspect that is equally frequent in diverse versions of the Cailoru narrative of origin, that is, the forefathers of the Cailoru survived a flood precisely because he/they could find shelter on top of a mountain or hill – Nofitu. Numerous versions I heard of the Cailoru narrative of origin refer the fact that, in the beginning, the world was in a state of mud or water. In some of those versions, the first creature was saved by the fact that it stood on the top of a high mountain; in others, the original creature is identified as a celestial being – the morning star Noipi. Such is case in an episode from an origin narrative a Cailoru man from Bauró village once told me: There is a woman who… Well, the great grandfathers [calu ho papu] had no children and the woman was on top of the house, one of those typical houses. She was on top of the house. The man went out to work far from this woman. Everyday, the eastern star, when it rises, Noipi, comes to sleep with this woman. When my grandfather returned from his work, the woman was pregnant. She was pregnant and gave birth to a man. Then the star appeared again… and in the end that is the star, which is the sign of Cailoru – Noipi. 248

Paths to infinity

Here we have again parallels to the stranger king dynamics, even if the outsider is a star. Again, a complementary aspect to be highlited, however, is the reference to the upper level of the sky and the stars. The correlation between the narrative of origin of each ratu and the specific origin events occurring in an upper level is significant to understand differences in mortuary rituals, including the placement (or not) of arapou cau next to the tombs. In the case of the Cailoru, therefore, arapou cau are actually placed next to the tombs of Cailoru men seven days after the internment in the course of a ceremony called Cipi Cipi Lemessu (bitter flowers), and are considered as propitiatory devices to help in the ascending trajectory of the deceased back to the origin world. The same origin/destiny complex explains that friends from Pairu and Naja ratu alike frequently asserted to me that they couldn’t use arapou cau. The founders of the Pairu ratu, as once a Pairu friend from Moro – a village located in the north coast of Lautém – told to me, ‘came by crocodile’ (i.e. on the back of the animal), and he added he had also ‘heard they had come from India’. His latter comment took me by surprise, but he confirmed it and continued, ‘Yes, from India. They came by crocodile and when they arrived here, they landed over there where the [present day] village of Ira-Ara stands. We have a marked place over there, right where they landed’. He is referring to places locally known as ia mari tuliya that, as McWilliam puts it, are ‘ancestor footfall/footprint sites, located at different points along the coast, which represent the mythic landing place of the original ancestor(s) of the group’ (McWilliam 2006: 267). Pairu ratu recognize that descendants from the same origin spread and now inhabit in different regions in the district of Lautém: some on the northern coast, others on the southern side in Loré and still others in the region of Luarai/Somoco located inland. In her monograph based on fieldwork in the 1960s in the southern coast, Maria Olimpia ­Lameiras-Campagnolo mentions the ia mari of Pairu’s branch ratu Pitileti: ‘the “ship” of ia-mari (…), the place where the big ship and the rowboat that brought the ancestors to the beach have been turned to stone’ (1975: 72). Another of my Pairu interlocutors from inland Somoco village explained the Pairu of his region came from Moro/Lautém on the north coast. Instead of attributing, however, the origin of his forbearers to India, he explained that they arrived from Indonesia, but still from the sea, by boat and helped by a crocodile: Our greatgrandfather (calu ho papu) parents came by crocodile with a Meraputi flag… They tied it round their head [he raises his arms and simulates it] (…) like the Indonesian flag (…) Our greatgrandfather tied that flag round his head [he repeats the gesture] and then, he came by crocodile…riding a crocodile! When they perish, people from the Pairu ratu do not use arapou cau behind their tombs. Moreover, just like those from Naja ratu, as I already mentioned, they clearly state they cannot put it. They use symbols of their own origin story to accompany the dead in their burial. As the wife of my friend from Somoco once told me, ‘when someone dies, be it a man or a boy, but if he is a male, a crocodile is painted in his coffin (…) it is painted on the coffin, a crocodile with a boy riding it’. The crocodile – which helped the Pairu to arrive on the island – is drawn, she continued, ‘outside the coffin. It is said that this is the signal, so that when he goes the greatgrandfathers recognize him immediately and say he is from our generation’. This conversation came as a sequence, when we were talking about a workshop I had organized in Lospalos with students whom I had asked to draw ancestors sites. Boys from Naja ratu had drawn a crocodile accompanied by a description of the narrative of origin of the founder of their ratu. 249

Susana de Matos Viegas

In his work amongst Fataluku-speaking people from Konu ratu, whose members inhabit the north coastal village of Com in Lautém, McWilliam attests to the fact that ‘in death the spirits of deceased members of the Konu ratu are believed to return to the sea’ (2007a: 1123). This shows, McWilliam argues, a ‘cyclical interdependence of ancestral origins narratives and contemporary living members of the group’ (2007a: 1123). Again, in funerals, this connection is made in a very objective way. Just as the Pairu invoke the scene of origin to the funeral by drawing a crocodile on the coffin, the Konu whose ‘originary ancestor takes the form of a dolphin (roinu), sprinkle a handful of beach sand (iniku) in the coffin to accompany the deceased on their spirit journey to join their elder (kaka) marine siblings’ (McWilliam 2007a: 1120).

Paths to infinity Description and debate developed above make clear that the arapou cau that the Cailoru put behind their tombs is their specific form of lisan connected to their origin, and the trajectory the deceased should take towards a high platform on the top of a mountain and the sky. Mortuary ceremonies amongst the Fataluku seem to stress more forcefully aspects of aggregation with the world of ancestors than to the separation from the living. Recommendations to the deceased about the route they should take are given in many different forms during the funeral. In Lautém, in the mortuary rituals, the deceased is encouraged towards meeting their ancestors. When we consider deceased from Cailoru or Vacumura ratu which most frequently put arapou cau on the tombs, they also clearly indicate a direction to this aggregation upwards. Arapou cau indicate a very precise direction to this journey: the chain of skulls in the funerary posts are very consistently regarded as a stairway leading to the upper world where life began. Horses are sacrificed and their skulls added to the funerary posts so that the animal can also help the deceased in his journey to meet ancestors. From several people I heard that the deceased follows an ascension that goes towards infinity, enee l’a (without end). In ritual, parallel language, hula pali, ara pali (straight ahead, no beginning and no end). In diverse Timorese contexts, just like others in Southeast Asia, it is thought that tombs themselves indicate forms of propitiating the ascending relations with the ancestors, amongst which one should mention the existence of ‘stairs’ (ke’eru) – which is sometimes made to correspond to the stairs of the traditional house. It is frequent to hear Fataluku say, regardless of their own ratu, that the process of transformation set in motion by dying implies travel by way of those stairs to meet the ancestors (Uru ke’eru: vacu ke’eru – stairs to the moon, stairs to the sun). In this case, there are very frequent references to divine-like entities of the sun and the moon, a feature shared in many different Southeast Asia contexts (e.g. Forth 1981). In the Cailoru case, amongst the Fataluku, however, the ascending trajectory of the deceased has a suplementar meaning: it is related to a path to the top of Nofitu mountain and towards the morning star Noipi. For this reason, funerals are often performed in the early morning. As I heard many times described by different Cailoru, funerals begin before 4 am, ‘before the rise of the morning star’ and the coffin is transported ‘in such a way as to simulate a voyage’. As a man from another ratu described to me about Cailoru funerals he attended with the eyes of an external acurate observor, One may scream and shout, sometimes run here and there. No one is sorry for the deceased anymore. Elders suround the deceased and speak to him describing their trajectories from place to place and their way back to Nofitu. They tell the deceased about the passing of life: from beginning to the end. [They tell them] they came from Nofitu. From Nofitu they came to Heler’u [a place near Lospalos]. From Heleru they passed by 250

Paths to infinity

here [i.e., Lospalos, the place where this conversation took place] until they reached Raça [another village of Cailoru ratu]. Then, they count from there, go through the places they have travelled till they reached Heler’u, up until Nofitu…to deliver them. They deliver them there where the first man came. Cailoru burials begin when the morning star rises, so that, I have been told by another friend, ‘the trajectory of the deceased is attracted by the light of the morning star’. These references to the trajectories to the upperworld and a path to infinity, the source for the title of this chapter, was also mentioned to Francisco Gomes working in Lautém in the 1960s (Gomes 1972). People from Assalaino told him that the origin of the Cailoru world was a piece of dry land named Herin located near Tutuala, the same area where Nofitu is located. He also attests that the trajectory was described to him as a path to ‘infinite’: Genealogies and sacred toponyms are spelled out by the deceased’s heirs time and again, so that he will not forget one single name of the grandfathers who he will meet in the hereafter, and will not go astray in the long path that he will have to travel in search of ‘infinity’ [inverted commas in the original]. (Gomes 1972: 130) Infinity is also mentioned by Francisco Gomes as meaning ‘the cradle of the generation, the beginning and the end of life’ (1972: 71). Gomes also refers the narrative of origin of ­K atiratu, according to which the first beings, ‘Ona-Kei, Mau-Kei’ survive the deluge by escaping to the top of a mountain (Nunu-Cenu, presently Nari), where they climbed up a coconut tree. The water was rising too, touching their feet, and the coconut tree grew faster until it reached the celestial platform. From there they came down and lived in a grotto (Gomes 1972: 18–19). Katiratu also claim to have been the first to inhabit the earth, and to implement a division of land destined to the other peoples who had to address them as ‘owners of the land’ (cf. Gomes 1972: 19). This division is described by Gomes as originating by the first creatures arriving from ‘Jaro-o’ – the ‘infinity’ (Gomes 1972: 72). The identification between infinity and the destiny of the Cailoru and Katiratu deceased who become ancestors seems to imply a substantiation of the agnatic succession of generations. If, on the one hand, this association is tied to the relation between genealogy and topogeny (Fox 1997; McWilliam 2007b: 366), the meaning of infinity seems to emphasize the value of continuity and of direction that creates a coincidence between the origins of life and its destiny. Andrew McWilliam has indicated that the generational cycle amongst the Fataluku extends across seven categories, and he provides an observation that, when people told him about the names of each one of the generations, they could only go as far as the seventh, namely, calu (grandchild), moco (son), palu (father), calu (grandfather), papu ­(great-grandfather) cuci (great-great-grandfather) and macua (great-great-great-grandfather). After that the names become taboo (tei) and are collectively described as the Calu Arafura (McWilliam 2011a: 72, fn27; 2012: 154). This reference is similar to the one I heard time and again from my interlocutors. Relevant to the present argument is that on some occasions the expression that was mentioned after the seventh generation (macua) is the Portuguese infinito (‘infinity’). In sum, the seventh generation does not indicate just one more generation. Rather, the seven stands for a sequence or continuity under one name, infinity or eneene l’a (without end). As McWilliam noticed, the number seven ( fitu) ‘is the most important in Fataluku cultural cosmologies, representing the idea of completion or wholeness’ (2008: 227). As Lisa Palmer 251

Susana de Matos Viegas

(2015) argues, a number that propitiates a sense of wholeness subsequently reproduces continuity in cycles. In her research in Baucau and Viqueque, she argues that ‘seven generations or cycles’ constitute a sense of history through a ‘hydrosocial cycle’ constantly renewed and transformed (Palmer 2015: 47). The number 7 amongst the Fataluku and in the Makassae and Waima speakers studied by Palmer seems to be equivalent to the role of number 8 amongst the Nage of Flores who associate completeness, death and the deceased with number 8, ‘a symbols of completeness’ (Forth 1998: 250). Amongst the Fataluku in many aspects, number 7 appears as a round number, creating wholeness in cycles of renewal and continuity. For instance, several tombs have seven steps in their stairs, traditional houses are described as having seven levels, and the ideal for an arapou cau is to have seven buffalo skulls. It is conventionally stated that marriage exchanges in higher status families (T: barlake; F: lipale) must include 77 buffalos (cf. also McWilliam 2011b: 751). I heard people saying that, however, such request could be seriously dangerous, bringing misfortune, namely, infertility to the couple. Seventy seven (77) is ambivalent as is typical the case with key cultural symbols. Amongst the Fataluku, these days no one asks such a high number of buffalos. However in Dili, as Kelly Silva reports, one of the references to sustain the widespread idea that Fataluku are one of the most traditionalist linguistic groups in Timor-Leste is that ‘depending on the status of the ritual house/family involved’, the wifes’s family would ask the extravagant number of ‘approximately’ 77 buffalos for barlake (Silva 2011: 129).4 This interpretation of the number 7 as both wholeness and renewed continuity is also sustained in another situation I came across in one of the villages of Cailoru ratu. This was a limestone figure that is well known at least by people from Assalaino, by the name of Totolufitu (lit.: all seven). This figure is slightly hidden in the bushes in the old village (lata matu)5 of Assalaino, where are located the tombs of three genealogical generations of siblings from patrilineal descendants of a named common ancestor. This is one of the places where rituals are performed that connect different sibling sets to their ancestors. As the friend who took us to this old village explained, ‘that figure… there are seven figures in one’, and thus it is ‘dangerous and potent’. Totolufitu is an anthropomorphized limestone around which, we were told, particularly important blessing ceremonies are performed. In subsequent conversations elucidating the meaning of ‘seven figures in one’, the idea of ‘infinity’ emerged again. What I am suggesting, in sum, is that the idea of infinity indicates, on the one hand, the destiny of the dead moving in the direction of their origin, but also the interdependence between origin and destination, a sense of continuity between the destination of the dead and the origin of the world.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have highlighted two instances that contribute to ethnographic perspectives on the way history is lived and experienced through an emphasis on spirit differentiation and configurations of sociality in contemporary Timor-Leste. First, we see that the identification of origin and destiny is described as cyclical (Hicks 1988; McWilliam 2007a; Molnar 2010; Palmer 2015). I propose to consider the idea of infinity as an ethnographic concept that fruitfully evokes that cycle. Infinity is both a spatial and temporal trajectory. Even when that direction is also identified as a locality – the Mount Po for the Bunak, Ramelau for the Mambai, Nofitu for Cailoru ratu Fataluku or Nari for Cailoru ratu Katiratu – they do not indicate a site where a replication of life – an afterlife – takes place. This is unsurprising in Timor-Leste, where ‘ancestor worship’ – to use the classical expression by Meyer Fortes (2008 [1987]) – is a key religious fact. As Meyer Fortes argued so long ago, ‘[w]orship in 252

Paths to infinity

rituals of prayer and sacrifice, (…) may all be validated by reference to what we describe as spiritual beings, be they gods or ancestors or nature deities. But evidently none of this necessitates a circumstantial cosmography of a “spirit world”’ (cf. Fortes 2008 [1987]: 71). Instead of imagining how the dead live in origin places where the world also originated (an afterlife), I have shown that across Timor-Leste the dead travel in the direction of origins and infinity helps to express this idea. A second instance of how history is lived results from the entanglements between origin myths and sociality – in this case, emphasizing the role of diversity in several histories across Timor-Leste. I have shown the Fataluku clearly assume a multiplicity of origins between different ratu, and therefore claiming irreconcilable narratives of origin, which not only dictate the origin of a specific group or clan, but the origin of the world. This holds not only for the Fataluku, but is also a strong proposition across contemporary TimorLeste. Timorese scholar, Vicente Paulino in his reflection on narratives of origin across Timor-Leste, identifies different origins corresponding to different ‘people’ (povo). This identification refers to both ethnolinguistic groups and clans: ‘Each people (povo) has its own way of conceiving the World, that is, the Earth and its origin’; accordingly, ‘people’ who have different origin narratives may be either a linguistic group or ‘those of their clans’ (Paulino 2013: 103). He also highlights, however, webs of alliances between different ethnolinguistic groups (Paulino 2013: 104). This would fit my interpretation of the plea for differentiation. It does not deny or nullify the value of certain sociolinguistic configurations, be they ethnolinguistic groups or orders of precedence in dispute amongst Houses. It does, however, highlight different categories emerging across Timor-Leste – from clans, to segments of clans, to houses, to linguistic groups and the important alliances established through webs of exchange. Certain points in the landscape may frame life in one way, whilst funeral practices invoke other framings. The plea for differentiation is, I argue, a precious route in the understanding of historicity in the contemporary world, around the central idea of the multiplicity of origins. As I show in this chapter, this creates a condition for experiencing history, which is founded in irreconcilable stories, which are not only different versions of a ‘true’ original narrative, but a founding principle of being through a permanent longing for the differentiation in origins.

Acknowledgements Fieldwork carried out in Lautém was supported by a research grant sponsored by the Foundation for Science and Technology of Portugal (FCT PTDC/CS-ANT/118150/2010), ­‘Co-habitations: dynamics of power in Lautém (Timor-Leste)’, which ran from 2012 to 2015. I thank Fundação Oriente for accommodation in Dili and the Secretary of State for the Arts and Culture of the Timorese government for support and formal authorizations to develop fieldwork in Lautém. A draft version of the argument developed in this chapter ­ avid Hicks in was presented in a Pannel on Timor-Leste organized by Richard Fox and D the Conference of the Association of Asian Studies (March 2017). I am most ­g rateful for the comments and further discussions on the chapter by the participants in that panel. The final version of the chapter benefited a lot from the generous and insightful ­comments by ­A ndrew McWilliam and Lisa Palmer. I am mostly grateful for that generosity and c­ onstructive ­criticism that were crucial to develop and substantiate their argument. I am, however, fully accountable for the content of the text and any of the fragilities of this essay are my full ­responsibility. I would like to thank also Rui Graça Feijó for the patient revision of the ­English and the wonderful companionship in Lautém and Pavia. 253

Susana de Matos Viegas

Notes 1 In this chapter, I follow the orthographic convention using letter ‘c’ for Fataluku words which are pronounced as ‘ch’ (see also McWilliam 2011a: 66). 2 McWilliam accurately describes the ratu as an affiliation of people to ‘common male ancestors and myths of origin, shared spiritual and ritual obligations with access to inherited common property and land in clearly defined localities’ (2007a: 1119). 3 My fieldwork covered three periods of between two and four months each, totalling nine months in all, in the years 2012–2016. 4 Kelly states that amongst her interlocutors in Dili, ‘It was suggested that the most expensive barlake in Timor was among the Fataluku of Lospalos (the country’s easternmost district) who demanded approximately 77 buffalo for a marriage, depending on the status of the ritual house/family ­involved’ (Silva 2011: 12). Amongst the Idaté (Personal communication by Judith ­Bovensiepen), the idea exists that it is impossible for a local man to marry a Fataluku woman, considering that her family would require an exaggerated number of 77 buffalos for her lipale. 5 Old villages are places visited only for the practice of powerful rituals, usually on top of the tombs of deceased forebears in the agnatic line who inhabited them (see also McWilliam 2006, 2008, 2011a).

References Barnes, Robert H. (1974). Kédang: A Study of the Collective Thought of an Eastern Indonesian People, ­Oxford: The Clarendon Press. Berthe, Louis. (1972). Bei Gua: Itinèraire des ancêtres: mythes des Bunaq de Timor. Texte Bunaq recueilli à Timor auprès de Bere Loeq, Luan Tes, Asa Bauq et Asa Beleq, Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. Bovensiepen, Judith. (2014). ‘Words of the ancestors: disembodied knowledge and secrecy in eastTimor’. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 20: 56–73. Bovensiepen, Judith. (2015). The Land of Gold: Cultural Revival and Post-conflict Reconstruction in Independent Timor-Leste, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, Southeast Asia Program Publications (SEAP). Carsten, Janet and Stephen Hugh-Jones (eds.). (1995). About the House: Levi-Strauss and Beyond, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fortes, Meyer. (2008 [1987]). ‘Ancestor Worship in Africa’, In Religion, Morality, and the Person: Essays on Tallensi Religion, Jack Goody (ed.), pp. 66–83, Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press. Forth, Gregory. (1981). Rindi: An Ethnographic Study of a Traditional Domain in Eastern Sumba, The Hague – Martinus Nijhoff, Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 93. Forth, Gregory. (1998). Beneath the Volcano: Religion, Cosmology and Spirit Classification among the Nage of Eastern Indonesia, Leiden: KITLV Press. Fox, James (ed). (1980). The Flow of Life. Essays on Eastern Indonesia, Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Fox, James. (1996). ‘Austronesian societies and their transformations’, In The Austronesians: Historical and Comparative Perspectives, P. Bellwood, J. Fox and Darrell Tryon (eds.), pp. 229–244, Canberra: Australian National University. Fox, James. (1997). ‘Place and landscape in comparative Austronesian perspective’, In Poetic Power of Place: Comparative Perspectives on Austronesian Ideas of Locality, James Fox (ed.), pp. 1–22, Canberra: Australian National University. Fox, James. (2005). ‘Southeast Asian religions: insular cultures’, In Encyclopedia of Religion Vol. 13, Lindsay Jones (ed.), pp. 8647–8652, Second edition, Detroit: Macmillan. Fox, James. (2008). ‘Installing the “outsider” inside: the exploration of an epistemic Austronesian cultural theme and its social significance’, Indonesia and the Malay World, 36(105): 201–218. Friedberg, Claudine. (1972). ‘Préface: introduction’, In Bei Gua: Itinèraire des ancêtres: mythes des Bunaq de Timor. Texte Bunaq recueilli à Timor auprès de Bere Loeq, Luan Tes, Asa Bauq et Asa Beleq, Louis Berthe (ed.), pp. 9–35, Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. Gomes, Francisco de Azevedo. (1972). Os Fataluku, Lisbon: Graduation dissertation – Instituto Superior de Ciências Sociais e Políticas Ultramarinas.

254

Paths to infinity Gow, Peter. (2001). An Amazonian Myth and Its History, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hicks, David. (1988). ‘Literary masks and metaphysical truths: intimations from Timor’, American Anthropologist, 90(4): 807–817. Lameiras-Campagnolo, Maria Olimpia. (1975). L’habitation des Fatuluku de Lórehe (Timor Portugais), Paris: Thèse de doctorat de 3ème cycle, Université René Descartes-Sorbonne. McWilliam, Andrew. (2006). ‘Fataluku forest tenures and the Conis Santana National Park’, In Sharing the Earth, Dividing the Land: Land and Territory in the Austronesian World, T. Reuter (ed.), pp. 253–275, Canberra: Australian National University Press. McWilliam, Andrew. (2007a). ‘Harbouring traditions in East Timor: marginality in a lowland entrepˆot’, Modern Asian Studies, 41(6): 1113–1143. McWilliam, Andrew. (2007b). ‘Austronesians in linguistic disguise: Fataluku cultural fusion in East Timor’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 38(2): 355–375. McWilliam, Andrew. (2008). ‘Fataluku healing and cultural resilience in East Timor’, Ethnos, 73(2): 217–240. Mcwilliam, Andrew. (2011a). ‘Fataluku living landscapes’, In Land and Life in Timor-Leste. Ethnographic Essays, A. McWilliam and E. G. Traube (eds.), pp. 61–84, Canberra: Australian National University Press. McWilliam, Andrew. (2011b). ‘Exchange and resilience in Timor-Leste’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 17: 745–763. McWilliam, Andrew. (2012). ‘The unsettling histories of Ponta Leste’, In Property and Social Resilience in Times of Conflict: Land, Custom and Law in East Timor, D. Fitzpatrick, A. McWilliam and S. Barnes (eds.), pp. 149–176, London and New York: Ashgate/Routledge. Molnar, Andrea Katalin. (2010). Timor-Leste: Politics, History and Culture, London and New York: Routledge. O’Connor, Sue, Sandra Pannell and Sally Brockwell. (2013). ‘The dynamics of culture and nature in a “protected” Fataluku landscape’, In Transcending the Culture–Nature Divide in Cultural Heritage: Views from the Asia-Pacific Region, S. Brockwell, S. O’Connor and D. Byrne (eds.), pp. 203–234, Canberra: Terra australis 36 Australian National University Press. Palmer, Lisa. (2015). Water Politics and Spiritual Ecology: Custom, Environmental Governance and Development, London and New York: Routledge. Palmer, Lisa and Balthasar Kehi. (2012). ‘Hamatak Halirin: The cosmological and socio-ecological roles of water in Koba Lima, Timor’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 168(4): 445–471. Pannell, Sandra. (2006). ‘Welcome to the Hotel Tutuala: Fataluku accounts of going places in an immobile world’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 7(3): 203–219. Paulino, Vicente. (2013). ‘Céu, terra e riqueza na mitologia timorense’, Veritas: Revista científica da Universidade Nacional Timor Lorosa’e, 1: 103–130. Pereira, Marfino, Silvino Lopes, Helder Henriques Mendes and Francisco Crisanto (eds.). (2015). Lautém em números 2015, Lospalos: Direção Geral de Estatística. Estatística Município de Lautém. Sahlins, Marshall. (1985). ‘The stranger king; or, Dumézil among the Fijians’, In Islands of History, pp. 73–103, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Silva, Kelly. (2011). ‘Foho versus Dili. The political role of place in East Timor national imagination’, In Translation, Society and Politics in Timor-Leste, P. C. Seixas (ed.), pp. 123–136, Porto: University Fernando Pessoa editions. Sousa, Lúcio Manuel Gomes de. (2010). An tia: partilha ritual e organização social entre os Bunak de Lamak Hitu, Bobonaro, Timor-Leste, Lisbon: PhD Dissertation in Anthropology, Open University (Universidade Aberta). Traube, Elizabeth. (1980). ‘Affines and the dead: Mambai rituals of alliance’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 136(1): 90–115. Traube, Elizabeth. (1986). Cosmology and Social Life; Ritual Exchange Among the Mambai of East Timor, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Traube, Elizabeth. (2011). ‘Planting the flag’, In Land and Life in Timor-Leste, A. McWilliam and ­E lizabeth Traube (eds.), pp. 117–140. Canberra: Australian National University. Viegas, Susana de Matos and Rui Graça Feijó. (2017). Transformations in Independent Timor-Leste: ­D ynamics of Social and Cultural Cohabitations, London and New York: Routledge.

255

19 Movimentu Kultura Making Timor-Leste Leonor Veiga

The contribution of contemporary art practices for Timor-Leste’s nation-building is highly significant as the consolidation of a national identity has occupied the authorities and the population, especially since independence in 2002. The change of political landscape has provided the artistic community with a valuable opportunity to identify and propose values, trends and community symbols of the new nation. Artists have successfully forged a space of artistic and political intervention, but their input has largely been segregated from broader nation-building efforts that characterise those promoted by the official authorities. This ghettoisation has enabled artists to maintain a free discourse, imbued with notions of the avant-garde. Yet, the impact has remained mostly confined to the attention granted by the international community residing in the country. In the 1990s, artists’ critical stance was directed towards expressing their desire for freedom, but since independence their attention has been directed towards fostering an inclusive national identity where all spectrums of society are represented. Artworks made between 2002 and 2012 (which this chapter focuses on) explore the country’s indigenous roots, provide a critical discourse, express political views, comment on social injustice and advance personal readings on the country’s convoluted history and its cultural emblems. Thus, the post-2002 Timorese artistic contributions to nation-building must be regarded as performative acts of citizenship, which communicate with local and international audiences. These acts of citizenship can generally be grouped under the banner Movimentu Kultura (the Culture Movement), an artistic orientation marked by the artful deployment of fragments of the country’s oral culture and traditions.

What is Movimentu Kultura? “Could you explain to me why there are so many references to [Timorese] traditional culture in the practice of the members of your art group? – This is Movimentu Kultura” (César, 2013). César, a local art practitioner, leader and founder of the artist collective, sanggar Dejukddil1 (one of many in Timor-Leste) and I shared this dialogue in 2013, during my second research trip to Timor-Leste. As in 2011, I witnessed in Timorese practices significant attention being given to the country’s traditions and political history, two aspects that oftentimes appear intertwined. César’s terminology, Movimentu Kultura, clearly expressed a tendency towards 256

Movimentu Kultura

conflating the country’s traditional culture within contemporary art practices. The reprocessing that Timorese traditional culture undergoes is not accidental; this creative acts derive simultaneously from a sense of replenishment and from a need for transformation, with the past providing fuel for the present and the future. So, in a post-independence scenario, Timorese artists found in traditional values a range of suitable material to perform nation-building, a project that enables them to both research their culture, but also to act as educators through art. Nationally, the recalling of Timor-Leste’s culture and history includes other facets of intervention, notably the recording of historical events through memorabilia. Some examples include monuments erected in remembrance of the 1999 killings (e.g. massacre sites of Suai and Liquiça) after the independence referendum.(Leach, 2009: 149) Whilst Suai and Liquiça are important sites for the remembrance of ‘difficult memories’(Leach, 2009), other local commemorative structures equally signpost significant paces of sacrifice and tragedy (Grenfell, 2012: 100–101). The existence and regard of these two violent incidents widely contrasts with the absence of a formal monument in remembrance of the Santa Cruz massacre of November 12, 1991. Australian political scientist, Michael Leach affirms that the importance of the Santa Cruz’s event “cannot be overstated” (Leach, 2009: 58), but it has largely been disregarded. The only monument erected in its remembrance was installed in 2012, amidst controversy. (Leach, 2015: 53) This neglect contrasts not only with the attention granted to Suai and Liquiça, but also with the annual on-site commemorations with votive candles on the cemetery’s front gate, an aspect that in 2005 caught the attention of one of Timor-Leste’s most active artists, Maria Madeira (b. 1969 Gleno). The Santa Cruz massacre occurred when circa 3,000 students gathered in the main Santa Cruz cemetery in Dili to mourn the death of Sebastião Gomes, a member of the youth resistance who had been killed inside the Motael church on October 28, 1991. The presence of Australian journalists who covered the events, and later smuggled their tapes to Australia, vividly highlighted the Timorese plight for independence internationally. To date however, no formal or public commemoration of this event had been developed and in the apparent official neglect, this crucial event has been widely addressed by contemporary artists, most of whom belonged to the youth clandestine resistance. So, I propose to understand Movimentu Kultura as a site of contestation imbued with a spirit of identity construction towards an inclusive national identity but finding its inspiration and motivation in official patterns of misrecognition.

Nation-building, two levels of intervention A major integrating aspect of nation-building processes has been addressed by British historian, Eric Hobsbawm, in terms of ‘the invention of tradition’ (Hobsbawm, 1983). He observes how traditions are assembled using fragments from the past in novel ways. The process occurs frequently during periods of great change, such as a nation’s birth. In most cases, invented traditions are largely agreed upon by the political elite in order to confer structure on newly formed communities and to facilitate cohesion amongst its members. Crucial events, such as the transition from dictatorship to democracy, are typically followed by transitional phases, which are rich in artistic manifestations and often imbued with a national and traditional patina. Yet, if important symbols such as a memorial site in remembrance to Santa Cruz are left out, a second level of invention at a grassroots level emerges. Non-official tendencies such as the Movimentu Kultura in Timor-Leste integrate aspects that have been dispensed, avoided or simply ignored, whilst providing a comment on the direct reality. In post-conflict societies such as Timor-Leste, some aspects of nation-building are deferred, whilst others are amply scrutinised. One case of deferral is the narrative of the 257

Leonor Veiga

country’s political history (one of the pillars of the invention of tradition, according to Hobsbawm), which remains largely undone. As a Timorese educator puts it, its writing demands being diplomatic with Portugal, Indonesia and with the local parties that brought Timor-Leste to the civil war: “So, when you start talking history, you come to a sensitive issue” (Leach, 2006: 233). Meanwhile, the suffering that the Timorese endured until 2000 sustained a unity amongst the population, but since independence “maintaining this unified sense of a common national identity has proven a more challenging task” (Leach, 2009: 145). The cohesion of the past has given way to a debate characterised by ‘struggles for recognition’ between civil authorities and civilians. In the art sector, one of the major aspects contributing to this situation is generational, and intimately tied to the language spoken, in this case, Portuguese and Indonesian. The country is ruled by the older Portuguese-speaking generation, which was instrumental in the ­formation of a nationalist movement during colonial times and largely lived in ­d iaspora during the occupation period. Added to these members of the elite, in recent years, the country’s youngest generations have also been educated in Portuguese. Yet, most of ­Movimentu ­Kultura’s practitioners belong to the Indonesian-speaking generation, the “­ Geração Foun… also called the ‘Generation of 99’… [which r]oughly…includes those born after 1970” ­( Bexley, 2015: 30) and is responsible for the successful clandestine resistance during the Suharto era. This group, albeit very active inside their art communities, is largely u ­ nder-represented within power structures. The discourse of their practices results from the disharmony caused by their interstitial position. Whilst these generational divisions have repercussions amongst the artist community, the members of the Portuguese-speaking generation characteristically maintain a solo artistic practice. This group includes artists such as Gabriela Carrascalão, Manuel Justino Bosco, Gelly Neves and Maria Madeira. The only exception to the Portuguese-speaking rule is the ­Indonesian artist Yahya Lambert, the only senior artist who interacts with both generations. In November 2006, he inaugurated the exhibition Arte Ba Dame (Art for Peace) with Bosco and Neves at the exhibition hall of Fundação Oriente, whilst his contact with younger Timorese has been effectuated through Sanggar Matan (Group Eye) that he founded in 1996. Meanwhile, the more numerous younger generation acts within these ‘living communities’ that proliferated in the country’s towns and cities. Artists contacted in these studios are around 30 years or younger, and mostly Indonesian-speaking Timorese. This group includes Iliwatu Danabere, Tony Amaral, Ino Parada, Casimiro, Abe and Alfeo, amongst others. There are no ideological clashes resulting from the age gap, as all artists share social preoccupations, stories and symbols. This harmony makes Movimentu Kultura an intergenerational trajectory towards unification.

The foundations of Movimentu Kultura’s: the 1990s What came to be the contemporary art movement in Timor-Leste appeared in the past decade of the occupation, when art became an expression of the desire for freedom. This was expressed “most prolifically as political graffiti and murals on derelict walls and street facades” of the country’s cities (Barrkman and Conceição Silva, 2008: 153). Some of the preserved political graffiti are found inside the walls of the Comarca Balide prison (operational between 1963 and 1999) and inside private houses, where walls were also used to record and protest abuses against women. Their preservation remains important as they constitute “intensely personalized artefacts of a living present of suffering” (Leach, 2009: 150). In 2007, Madeira tackled the sensitive issue of sexual violence against Timorese women in some of her works (Figure 19.1). 258

Movimentu Kultura

Figure 19.1  M adeira Kiss and Don’t Tell

In Kiss and Don’t Tell, Madeira’s representation alludes to a humid wall with damaged paint; to mention rape, she kissed the canvas with red or pink lipstick, in a rather feminine manner. She positioned these lips on the lower part of the composition, to allude to the women’s underdog position. She explains this act of citizenship as paying tribute to the silent resistance perpetrated by women, an aspect that remains largely unaddressed. Kiss and Don’t Tell refers to their status as victims who do not manifest abuse publicly, thus keeping women’s resistance in relative obscurity. The artist remembers that these women’s contribution for the resistance is not minor, but has largely been forgotten due to its sensitive nature. The origins of Movimentu Kultura can be traced to the 1990s, when a coincidence of events took place inside and outside the country. Inside the country, “young artists broke with the conservatism of their predecessors and created critical realist and surrealist images in response to the immediate situation” (Barrkman and Conceição Silva, 2008). Indonesian artist Yahya Lambert (b. 1972, Bandung), who lives in the territory since 1982 (due to transmigration policies), returned to Timor-Leste after completing his studies in Indonesia. Then, he opened Sanggar Matan (Eye Group), a platform to express ideas and opinions through painting. In that same year, he displayed at the Becora Culture Centre in Dili the first painting on tais2 ever shown. Probably resulting from a shortage of canvas in the local market, the ­Indonesian authorities were quick to recognise this occurrence a distinctly medium of expression from the country’s 27th province. This way, it can be argued, a tradition was invented: the regime formally instituted a cultural event, which lasts up until today. Painting on tais was continued in Sanggar Masin and became a hallmark amongst Arte Moris students, such as Grinaldo Fernandes. Fernandes’s 2004 Sana Lulik features a tais-woven cloth background, embellished with uma lulik houses and jewellery adornments. At the painting’s centre rests a vase with votive candles, alluding to the sacredness of the traditional house for the Timorese (Figure 19.2). The popular movement for the preservation and reconstruction of uma lulik throughout the country has seen a substantial increase in the post-independence era. This civilian movement is highly addressed by artists and has originated government’s attention: in 2013, a process for the classification of the uma lulik as intangible heritage was proposed to UNESCO, showing that ‘bottom-up’ initiatives may affect and be conducive to nation-building purposes. 259

Leonor Veiga

Figure 19.2  Grinaldo Sana Lulik

In the 1990s, Maria Madeira was exiled in Australia. Probably triggered by the situation, she began making politically and socially engaged art through Timor-Leste’s traditions. This inclination was instinctive, and her way of resisting and surviving. Through her works, she claimed the vital urge to preserve “a culture that was being destroyed and dismantled through genocide” (Madeira, 2011a). Informed by the media of the deplorable situation her compatriots found themselves, Madeira voiced the love for the country she was uprooted from. Then, she started employing remains of tais weavings to refer to Timor-Leste’s traditions and culture. In Timor Oan, Madeira applied onto the canvas a newspaper portrait of a young boy, framed as if he was jailed within a net made from fragments of tais she possessed (Figure 19.3). In 1996, in her solo show “East Timor – Land of Crosses”, at the Perth Institute of Contemporary Art (PICA), Madeira showcased two conceptual installations, 270+, the Santa Cruz Massacre and Silence at What Price?, in which she made direct references to two tragic events she learned from the media. In 270+, she addressed the estimate number of East Timorese murdered in the Santa Cruz massacre. According to her, this estimate meant that the number of victims could rise to 279. To reference this discrepancy, she conceived 270 kaibauk (the crescent-shaped crown, worn as part of traditional costumes by women and men in a variety of occasions) and displayed them on the top of a black cruciform mantle. Whilst the kaibauk clearly denotes her motivation to enshrine the victims, the combination of elements she conceived introduces other significations. It indicates the Catholic religion of the mourners and recalls a cemetery, as observed by Australian journalist Ron Banks: “When massed together on the floor of PICA they resemble a graveyard echoing the death at the hands of the Indonesian military” (Banks, 1996) (Figure 19.4). The installation Silence at What Price? shocks for its straightforwardness and crudeness, whilst its inherent softness derives from the message’s invisibility. The work alludes to the death of young East Timorese Fernando Boavida on December 27, 1992: 260

Movimentu Kultura

Figure 19.3  M adeira Timor Oan

Figure 19.4  M aderia 270+, the Santa Cruz Massacre

During his interrogation, he was made to lie on a plank of sharp nails, while another plank was laid on top of him. A heavy tire was placed on top of the second plank. When Fernando failed to give his torturers ‘satisfactory answers’, another tire was added. ­Fernando lost consciousness and died, three days after his arrest. (Amnesty International to United Nations, July 13, 1993; Madeira, 2011b) The installation shows a bed incrusted with nails and covered by a full-length tais cloth. This application of the country’s most revered textiles is not accidental, as it alludes to traditional Timorese funerary rituals (Ximenes, 2012) (Figure 19.5). 261

Leonor Veiga

Figure 19.5  M adeira Silence at What Price?

Made from her exile in Australia, these works celebrate Geração Foun’s efforts for the independence struggle, as they constituted most of the victims. The two events – Lambert’s gesture to paint on tais and Madeira’s incorporation of tais and kaibauks in her works – ­possibly happened simultaneously. Through their works, Movimentu Kultura was originated in the 1990s. Thus, this decade’s experiments are of extreme relevance for post-­independence practices because they laid the foundations of its themes, materials and strategies.

Movimentu Kultura: making Timor-Leste Whilst its roots reside in the occupation period (1975–1999), Movimentu Kultura is largely a post-independence phenomenon. It continues the “phenomenon of critical expression” (­Barrkman and Conceição Silva, 2008) that first emerged in Timor-Leste in the 1980s against the Indonesian occupation until self-determination in 1999. Today, Movimentu ­Kultura engages all artists and unites generations that have been separated by gaps in language (the older Portuguese-speaking generation and the younger Indonesian-speaking one) and artistic activity (senior artists most commonly maintain a solo practice, whilst younger artists work within collective studios). Their ideological meeting in this interstitial space of interference makes Movimentu Kultura a critical space where individual and collective concerns are voiced through art. And whilst these critical messages are targeted towards the Timorese, ­Movimentu Kultura’s main audience has been the global expat community that held the buying power essential for arts’ survival until 2012. Since 2000, various sanggars (community art studios, responsible for the emergence of nationalistic ideas in 1930s Indonesia) were founded in Timor-Leste. Immersed in a spirit of reconstruction, these academies have contributed for the increasing number of Timorese artists amongst the younger generations. Arte Moris (Living Art) School is the most important of such art initiatives: founded in 2003 by the Swiss couple Luca and Gabriela Ganser in the installations of the former site of the Indonesian Provincial Museum of East Timor, today it is simultaneously an academy and a museum. The Swiss couple trained a group of approximately 15 artists in close association with overseas artists and volunteers. French art manager 262

Movimentu Kultura

Charline Bodin, a volunteer at Arte Moris in 2006, notes that the first generation of “Arte Moris students possess a kind of mental freedom” (Bodin, 2013). This, she says, results from a combination of informal seminars taught by Luca Ganser and from the internationalisation promoted by the couple, who took the students outside Timor-Leste’s borders to exhibit in Australia and Switzerland. The Gansers also established the first museum of Timorese contemporary art: the facilities house post-2002 works made by Arte Moris individual artists and tutors, and include some collective creations. At the gallery’s centre, an uma lulik from the region of Los Palos dominates the space and catches the visitor’s eye. Its architectural model is found in many creations, an aspect deriving from the fact that a vast quantity of the students originate from this region. Nevertheless, it is probable that the community’s overall preference for the Los Palos lulik results from the its architectural uniqueness, one which displays a very tall and inclined roof and stands above the ground level. Around the house made from discarded tobacco boxes, the students placed other adornments, such as a grass weave mantle (along with tais, another important craft in Timor-Leste), a crocodile (to symbolise the country’s emergence) and buffalo horns which are many times displayed in lulik roofs. The presence of the Arte Moris museum is of extreme relevance for post-2002 Timorese art, as it documents an important period of the country’s production. Through this collection, the historicisation of the country’s contemporary art can be assessed, as it assembles a significant sample of the production period between 2002 and 2012. And because most works of this period were sold and nowadays reside overseas, the Arte Moris collection constitutes the only available archive within the country’s borders. In fact, the presence of an international community with buying power residing in the country during these years is intimately linked to the success of Arte Moris art, and it equally influenced the appearance of new groups that shared the optimism of the moment. But since late 2012, as observed by Arte Moris Director Iliwatu Danabere, when several UN officials, Portuguese and ­Australian military personnel began leaving the country, the sense of brotherhood that characterised these first years gave way to a competition between the various art communities for customers (Danabere, 2013). An interesting consequence resulting from the proliferation of sanggars is that different academies acquired different specific media and skills. The Sanggar Dejukdil, next to Hotel Timor, in Dili, conflates art and music in their activity; the Gembel Art Collective, situated in the other end of Dili, and founded by senior Arte Moris artist, Ino Parada (b. 1983, Dili), specialises in block printing. In their facilities, the group makes community projects with other collectives from Australia and Indonesia, namely, Canberra-based Culture Kitchen Project and Yogyakarta-based Sanggar Taring Padi. These collaborations have provided the Gembel Collective with a major source of work: due to its inexpensive and reproducible nature, print is highly effective for low-budget communities such as Gembel. The most important aspect of Movimentu Kultura is the application of fragments of traditions (e.g. symbols, stories, or material fragments) within the various themes it works on. This feature of the art produced between 2002 and 2013 has allowed local communities to identify with contemporary art practices and has served to communicate to international audiences what it means to be East Timorese. In search for this identity, artists say, “we look at these symbols [kaibauk, tais, morteen (a woman’s necklace made of coral beads), belak (a silver necklace piece), uma lulik, lafaek (crocodile)] because in them lies the true Timorese identity, which is prior to the Portuguese times” (Valentim Pereira Zecaruno (Gil), 2011). Despite the essentialism of such affirmation, artists explain that using these fragments and citing the past relates to their attempt to recover and consolidate customs. It is relevant that artists frequently express their interest to research of 263

Leonor Veiga

Timorese indigenous roots: “I would prefer to study indigenous history, not related to colonialism. East Timor’s history itself; the local things” (Leach, 2009: 146). This aptness makes Movimentu Kultura not only a site of contestation, but one where these legacies are explored in novel ways. Through the inclusion of fragments of traditions, contemporary art produced between 2002 and 2012 has referred to historical events, national heroes, manifested preoccupations with the position of women in Timorese society, commented on the presence of the UN personnel, provided insights of the life of the Timorese, and frequently demonstrated concern for the environment. Styles may vary between surrealistic compositions (in which the voice of the artist takes a more internal tone that works the soul, and relates less to political events), naturalistic configurations, and a third disposition of assemblage and collage art which results from the placement of material fragments in the composition. These three main directions, more pre-eminent in painting, share space with the growing trends of installation art, performance art and ready-made art.

Movimentu Kultura: individual styles, collective concerns Whilst most artists of the older generation maintain a solo practice, the first generation of Arte Moris students works inside disparate art communities and lectures younger people. Despite the accordance in themes, each artist presents a highly individual style. Manuel Justino “Bosco” Alves do Rego (b. 1965, Dili) is an artist from the ­Portuguesespeaking generation based in Manatuto. A trained veterinary who works as an artist since the occupation years, Bosco is largely self-trained. During the occupation, because of his activism for Timor’s independence, he was careful with representations. In 1999, on the eve of independence, all his production was destroyed. Today, he works away from the sanggars and his themes are less political. His attention is directed towards the establishment of the country’s identity, an aspect that finds correspondence in his colour pallet of choice: shades of brown, reds, oranges and yellows allude to the country’s warm climate. He demonstrates empathy for the country’s weakest people, referring to the children who are deprived of a childhood, to those who became handicapped resulting from various decades of conflict, and to women, whom he considers society’s most fragile and mysterious members. To allude to women’s silent resistance role during the occupation period, his creations frequently contain faceless women. In Protection for Women, a woman emerges from two banana leaves, with two uma lulik houses appearing in the background. Women must be protected – the banana leaves protect women from rain; the uma lulik protects them from hardship – as they kept local cultures alive during decades of conflict. It is thanks to their participation in culture that traditions, such as tais weaving, that are solely made by women, remain alive (Figure 19.6). Angelino ‘Gelly’ Neves (b. 1971, Dili) is more overtly political. He expects the art ­exported until 2013 to be capable to divulge the country, its history and peoples. Neves ­observes that art practices are not neutral, having always originated disputes with the church, the community and even amongst artists. In 2006, as a reaction to the East-West crisis, which caused more destruction of the livelihoods of the poor, he resorted to paint the life of the rural people. Through these works, he evaluated the impact of freedom in their lives, comparing a highly present past in the country’s remote areas with the fast-paced and rapidly modernising Dili, where he lives and works. In Untitled (2011), Neves observes that rural people lives has not undergone significant change: they remain untouched by the prosperity that characterises the livelihood of the populations in the country’s largest cities, as they still work on hard tasks from sun to sun, wear traditional apparel, walk in bare feet and remain amongst the country’s poorest (Figure 19.7). 264

Movimentu Kultura

Figure 19.6  B  osco Protection for Women

Figure 19.7  Neves Untitled

265

Leonor Veiga

The legend of the Lafaek crocodile is amongst the most significant and recurring themes of Timorese contemporary art: symbol of the country’s physical emergence (the island is said to be shaped after a crocodile), Lafaek or Abo represents the Timorese grandparents (or ancestors) and in popular belief it embodies these ancestor’s body or spirit. Yet, today the legend may be represented to introduce social preoccupations. As in the legend, in Lafaek, Bosco represented the crocodile taking the child that helped him when in need travelling in the sun’s direction. Surrounding the story’s two main characters, various suffering women appear depicted naked, roped and crying. With this gesture, Bosco reflects on real incidents, whilst alluding to the Timorese reliance on ancestors to protect those suffering today. The uma lulik is the main institution standing at the centre of Timor-Leste’s culture. This animistic totem house, which worked as a disciplinary force of life (Menezes, 2006), constitutes a total social phenomenon and represents symbolically a descent group (uma lisan). Such understanding of lulik’s central role was depicted by Ino Parada in Lulik. His representation denotes cosmology: it shows a direct relation between Timor-Leste and the world, with the lulik house and the country’s sacred mountains and its centre, moving through the driving force of two crocodiles. Sometimes, artists depict traditional dances, warrior costumes, in which male and female apparel become evidenced. All these elements serve to reaffirm the importance of local culture for the Timorese. Interestingly, these elements often appear coupled with episodes of the country’s political history, denoting a growing secularisation of traditional culture, which is reinterpreted and reassessed through contemporary events. Amongst these possibilities, the Santa Cruz massacre, the crisis of 1999 and the crisis of 2006 seem to be the most important themes for Movimentu Kultura artists. Tony Amaral (b. 1984, Dili) is a first-generation Arte Moris artist who currently works as a teacher in the school. One of the most active artists of his generation, Amaral has studied abroad in Australia and developed a critical discourse of his own. In his first solo exhibition at Arte Moris “Tony Amaral – Dame ba rai nebe'e maka iha problema”, Amaral emphasised the role of the news media in the building of a new country. Whilst without the media the Timor cause would not have grown acceptance in the 1990s, today he observes the media’s co-responsibility for a “crisis of faith in development and governance, which impact on people’s sense of harmony” (Adams, 2011). The work Santa Cruz Massacre uses as ready-made is the most widely mediated image of the event: in the cemetery, amid people running and the sound of shots, a man sat on the floor and held a wounded compatriot. This global image was impressive for its effectiveness, called for humanitarian values of piety and compassion, and transported the viewer to religious images of Mary holding a wounded Jesus. It is partly for its global relevance that it became of crucial importance for the country’s plight: it spoke effectively to universal audiences (Figure 19.8). Cesario (b. 1983, Los Palos) could be considered a painter of history for his frequent portraits and representations of political events, which he infuses with his own comments. In Laiha fatin atu ba (2007), literally ‘Without a place to go’, he conflated the two crises, 1999 and 2006. His observation pertains to the situation of the poor, who in both occasions fought for their lives, abandoned their homes, whilst the wealthy simply left the country by plane (on the image’s horizon) to find security overseas. In the image, a mother with her two children (each child wearing a t-shirt marking the two dates) appears in distress, walking in the wilderness for their lives. His reading mirrors the antagonism that resides in Timorese society that originated the crisis of 2006 (Figure 19.9). Timor remains a wounded society, and problems surge. As if she was anticipating the dramatic crisis that would extrapolate in the following year, in 2005 Madeira conceived First Aid II. In the image, a crocodile – a direct reference to the lafaek legend – made from fragments of 266

Movimentu Kultura

Figure 19.8  Tony Amaral Santa Cruz Massacre

Figure 19.9  C  esario Laia fatin atu ba

267

Leonor Veiga

Figure 19.10  Madeira First Aid II

tais cloth is evident, but it appears severely wounded, cut into four parts. In sewing these internal divisions – Indonesian Timor versus Timor-Leste, and East-West Timor-Leste – Madeira hoped to heal the country’s severe divisions. About the work, she admits, “this painting is an attempt to express the necessity of first aid in Timor-Leste as we struggle as an independent nation” (Madeira, 2011b). With this representation, she expressed the fragility of the country’s union, despite the success that becoming an independent nation entitled (Figure 19.10). Timorese artists, and notably Maria Madeira, keep researching the origins of their culture. This has meant looking into the country’s regional tais and uma lulik, to differentiate from and simultaneously find close ties with Indonesian Timor. As such, all their works can be proposed as containing an avant-garde gesture through its major attributes: (1) the blurring of high and low cultures (here expressed by the conflation of fragments of tradition within the contemporary media of painting and installation); (2) an opposition towards official rhetoric (one that avoids addressing themes such as rape, the origin of the crises and the contribution for the independence struggle by the younger generations); and (3) an approximation between art and everyday life, through the integration of art’s social functions.

Concluding remarks This chapter proposes that nation-building is not solely promoted by governing elites. In fact, it can be effectuated by non-governing parties and, more concretely, by artists. In post-independence Timor-Leste, official discourse has been occupied with the conservation of memorabilia, especially through the preservation of colonial legacies. This state of affairs has met some civilian resistance, namely, by the country’s contemporary artists, who are more concerned with the procurement of an ‘essential identity’ of Timorese people. This phenomenon, named generically Movimentu Kultura, constitutes a counter-discourse, imbued with notions of avant-gardism. This avant-gardism is characterised by the employment 268

Movimentu Kultura

of fragments of traditions and social commentary. It constitutes a grassroots level of the phenomenon defined by Hobsbawm as ‘the invention of traditions’. As he explained, invented traditions have historically appeared to structure populations around a newly formed reality, and Timor-Leste is no exception. The difference is that through their art, the artistic community of Timor-Leste has proposed its own discourse, many times through the recalling of traditional arts to express notions of discontent or aspects they find overlooked. Their project has largely been built on those communalities with West Timor such as tais weavings and in the cosmic system of the uma lisan (comprising the sacred house, traditional dances, rituals and stories of the island) that both halves of the island share. The artists find in these sources important residues of a national identity and propose them as input to integrate the country’s (re)construction. In Timor-Leste, the project of Movimentu Kultura has taken place in the country’s major towns. Artists residing in the country’s metropolis share a desire to forge a national identity through fragments of traditional arts, many times coupled with social commentary. This chapter provides examples of the recurring themes – women and children, and their largely overlooked contribution for the national struggle for independence and fragile position in society; the economic contrast between the governing elite and the poor; the local legends; and political events – that are shared by all the Timorese, including the artistic community. In this respect, artists’ generational and linguistic divisions are not reflected in their creations. Even though senior artists maintain a solo practice, and younger artists maintain a collective practice in the realm of the sanggars, they coincide in discourse, in terms of themes and materials. Thus, it is possible to propose Movimentu Kultura as an artistic tendency that employs aspects of traditional life in a secular manner. By doing so, Movimentu Kultura – which has been established whilst the country’s heritage was actively pursuing new territories for national manifestations – provides a space to educate both local populations and foreigners (who buy their creations). The art produced in post-2002 Timor-Leste finds its ideological and material roots in the 1990s, a crucial decade for what would be a contemporary art movement in TimorLeste. The 1990s witnessed the emergence of critical art expressing the desire for freedom; it was in this decade that the first steps towards the formation of a coherent national project of art took place, both internally and outside the country’s borders. Inside the country, the debut of painting on tais is a highly important event: it was formalised as a local form of expression by the Indonesian authorities, and it would remain a strong trend within post-independence practices. Outside the country, artists in exile such as Maria Madeira employed fragments of traditional arts to voice their concern for a country that remained formally inexistent. After independence, art has maintained its critical role: it expresses preoccupations of various origins and largely remains imbued of a nationalistic approach. This is prevalent in the work of older Portuguese-speaking practitioners such as Gelly Neves, Manuel Bosco and Maria Madeira, as well as in the practice of the younger artists working within art academies. All generations – which work separately – meet in this interstitial space of critical interference, one that is defined by addressing what is overlooked by the governing authorities such as the living conditions of the poor and the traumatised, and the effective contribution of women and the younger generations for the independence struggle. Timorese artists show a need to narrate and comment on the history of the country – one which remains largely undone. This has meant that many times they comment on observations stemming from the country’s building process and the life of Timorese. 269

Leonor Veiga

Notes 1 Sanggar is the Indonesian word for studio. This use probably results from the fact that most of the artistic community is formed by Indonesian-speaking Timorese aged 18 to 30 years. 2 Tais is a woven textile which is part of Timor-Leste’s classified intangible heritage. Found everywhere in the country, each local presents its own variations in terms of colours and ornamentations deriving from the stories and legends imprinted onto them.

References Adams, E. (2011). Curatorial Notes for Tony Amaral – Dame ba rai nebe’e maka iha problema. Banks, R. (1996). Protest in Paint. West Aust. 4. Barrkman, J., Conceição Silva, A. (2008). A Contemporary Art Movement Timor-Leste, in: Barrkman, J. (Ed.), From the Hands of Our Ancestors. Museum and Art Gallery Northern Territory, Darwin. Bexley, A. (2015). A Contingent Agency: Gembel and the Print-Making Project. Cad. Arte E Antropol., Art, agency and power effects in East Timor 4, 29–40. Bodin, C. (2013). Evecom TL. César. (2013). Movimentu Kultura. Danabere, I. (2013). Arte Moris. Grenfell, D. (2012). Remembering the Dead from the Customary to the Modern in Timor-Leste. Local Glob., 11, 86–108. Hobsbawm, E.J. (1983). Introduction: Inventing Traditions, in: Hobsbawm, E.J., Ranger, T. (Eds.), The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 1–14. Leach, M. (2006). History on the Line: East Timorese History after Independence. Hist Workshop J., 222–237. Leach, M. (2009). Difficult Memories: The Independence Struggle as Cultural Heritage in East Timor, in: Reeves, K., Logan, W. (Eds.), Places of Pain and Shame: Dealing with “Difficult Heritage.” Routledge, London, pp. 144–161. Leach, M. (2015). The Politics of History in Timor-Leste, in: Kent, L., Ingram, S., McWilliam, A. (Eds.), A New Era? Timor-Leste after the UN. ANU Press, Canberra, pp. 41–58. Madeira, M. (2011a). Maria Madeira’s Art. Madeira, M. (2011b). List of Works 2003–2011. Menezes, F.X. de. (2006). Encontro de Culturas em Timor-Leste. Crocodilo Azul, Díli. Valentim Pereira Zecaruno (Gil), C. (2011). Arte Moris Free Art School. Ximenes, F. (2012). O Tais: Desde os Primórdios à Contemporaneidade. Presented at the Timor-Leste: Memórias e História da Antropologia, Universidade Nacional Timor Lorosa’e, Timor, pp. 1–14.

270

20 The legacies of the (deep) past and the role of archaeology and cultural heritage in contemporary Timor-Leste Nuno Vasco Oliveira A brief history of archaeological research in Timor-Leste The island of Timor has long been perceived as a possible stepping-stone in the migration route(s) that led modern humans to populate the Australasian continent for the first time (Birdsell 1977: 122). In the past few years, O’Connor et al. (2002), O’Connor and ­Chappell (2003), O’Connor (2007) and Kealy et al. (2016; 2017) have readdressed this subject and dates obtained recently in Timor-Leste (O’Connor et al. 2010; Reepmeyer et al. 2011; H ­ awkins et al. 2017) and in Northern Australia (O’Connell and Allen 2015; Wood et al. 2016; C ­ larkson et al. 2017) seem to support this idea. Timor, the largest of the Lesser Sunda islands, has for many years attracted the attention of archaeologists, historians and other researchers. The eastern part the island, formerly known as ‘Portuguese Timor’ was under Portuguese rule since the mid-sixteenth century; however, only during the past hundred years of Portugal’s colonial regime, and especially during the Estado Novo,1 did the administration systematically invest more resources in its most distant colony. Research production in Timor increased considerably during this period in key areas such as geology (Gageonnet and Lemoine 1958), agricultural development (Gonçalves et al. 1974), forestry (Cinatti 1950), botany (for a list of works, see Cinatti 1950b) and archaeology. The initial period of archaeological research in Timor was mostly carried out by non-­ experts who were not always familiar with ‘modern’ practices used in archaeology at the time (Trigger 2006: 382). Besides taking place before radiometric dating procedures were in use in the region, which led to some misinterpretations of the nature and age of deposits excavated, most archaeological works then were also poorly published. The first archaeological excavations in former Portuguese Timor were conducted by Alfred Bühler, who worked at the Museum für Volkerkunde in Basel, Switzerland. Between June and July 1935, Bühler excavated a small rockshelter in Baguia. The report on the excavation, however, published by Sarasin whilst Bühler was still in the field, lacks detailed information and little can be inferred from his work (Sarasin 1936). A few years later, World War II broke out and 271

Nuno Vasco Oliveira

despite Portugal’s neutrality, the landing of Dutch and Australian troops in Timor led to the invasion by the Japanese army there. Japan’s large-scale occupation of Timor lasted from ­February 1942 to 1945, resulting in considerable destruction and death, in what was probably the second most disruptive period of East Timorese history in the last century (Gunn 1999). When World War II ended and Portugal regained control of its colony, the government decided to rebuild the infrastructure and pride lost in the years of war. In the 1950s, as part of the effort to rebuild and develop Portuguese Timor, the Timor Anthropological Mission (Missão Antropológica de Timor – MAT) was established. During this period, Portugal was ruled by an authoritarian regime, scientifically isolated and out of pace with much of the rest of Europe and the world. The Estado Novo had very little interest in anthropology or archaeology, except in cases where these could be used for its own glorification (Fabião 1996). At a time when the country’s national identity was at stake (Schouten 2001), the P ­ ortuguese government supported research in its colonies to justify the ethnic diversity of the country’s extended ‘overseas territories’ (as the colonies were then renamed) and view ‘the production of knowledge as a utilitarian tool for legitimising and perpetuating the empire’ (Castelo 2017: 631). The renewed scientific investigations were led by António de Almeida who had previously conducted similar work in Angola, Mozambique and Portuguese Guinea; MAT’s main purpose was to investigate Timor’s physical anthropology and prehistory. Almeida and his colleagues conducted fieldwork and excavations in the Laga Lagoon, Tutuala, and elsewhere in 1953, 1957 and 1963 (Almeida 1954, 1960, 1967; Mendes Corrêa et al. 1956; Mendes Corrêa et al. 1964; Almeida and Zbyszewski 1967). Most archaeological and ethnographic materials recovered by MAT are today deposited in Lisbon, and a summary of Almeida’s works has been published (Lucas et al. 1992). In 1962, Ruy Cinatti reported the finding of three sites with rock paintings in Tutuala (Cinatti 1963). Cinatti, who was not officially part of MAT but was working in Timor for the Junta de Investigações do Ultramar 2 (Stilwell 1995: 299), was an agronomist and a poet with an extensive interest in the archaeology and anthropology of Timor. His works in Timor range from botanical and forestry descriptions (Cinatti 1950, 1950b, 1950c), archaeology (Cinatti 1963) and ethnographic accounts, especially a major descriptive report on Timorese traditional houses (Cinatti et al. 1987). He was also involved in the French-Portuguese Ethnological Mission to Portuguese Timor, which took place between 1966 and 1969 (Castelo 2017). The publications by MAT researchers often lacked detailed information on the excavation methods employed, which can be explained by the fact that none of them was, strictly speaking, an archaeologist. This limitation influenced some of the interpretations and often resulted in very poor recording procedures, making any reassessment of those early interventions extremely difficult today.3 Despite radiocarbon dating methods being widely in use before Almeida’s excavations took place (Arnold and Libby 1951), there seemed to be no awareness that they could be useful to clarify the chronology of the sites excavated, based on stone tool technologies alone. Almeida was essentially an anthropologist, with a major interest in taxonomy and physical anthropology of indigenous populations. His works were in general agreement with MAT’s orientations, which were mostly descriptive and typical of continental European anthropology from the second half of the nineteenth century (Schouten 2001: 160). Almeida’s work in Timor, most of it republished in a single volume in 1994 (Almeida 1994), is the singular expression of a paradox in the sense that his recording of cultural materials and practices did not convey his belief that these would soon be replaced by more advanced (Portuguese) ones (Schouten 2001: 166). Almeida’s views were in agreement with those of Estado Novo and its 272

Legacies of the past and role of archaeology and cultural heritage

colonial role, to whom ‘the introduction of Portuguese civilisation, considered superior, was a sacred mission, used at the same time as a justification for the Portuguese presence’ (Schouten 2001: 165). The early 1960s saw a period of marked changes in archaeology in the Australasian region and around the world, with new theoretical and technical approaches and an increasing reliance on radiocarbon dating (for a review of works from that period, see Long 2000 and Trigger 2006). Australian archaeology was being established, and the history of early human settlement of the Australian continent became the focus of research there (Mulvaney 1969; Mulvaney and Kamminga 1999; Smith and Burke 2007; Hiscock 2008). The island of Timor, perceived as a gateway into the early human colonisation of the Australian continent, became a focus of attention. But these were also times of worldwide political change, with the emergence of new nations in Africa and Asia, the Cold War and the spectrum of communism in Southeast Asia. Nearly 30 years after World War II and the devastation caused the Japanese troops, Timor would soon become tied between the hands of world politics and international diplomacy, and a victim of greater regional interests (Fernandes 2007). Ian Glover, a British archaeologist conducting his doctoral research at ANU, was the last archaeologist to work in Timor before December 1975, when Indonesian troops invaded the former Portuguese colony. Glover conducted three fieldwork seasons in Portuguese Timor and spent ten months, between 1966 and 1967, locating and excavating archaeological sites there (Glover 1972). Until the past two decades, Glover’s seminal work was the only comprehensive and detailed account of Timor’s prehistory, based on a series of detailed stratigraphic sequences of cave sites, systematic identification of finds and radiocarbon dates. The main results of his research were initially published in several journal articles (Glover 1969, 1971, 1973, 1977, 1979) and later in a single monograph (Glover 1986). Except for the introduction of pottery and animal domesticates at approximately 3800–3600 BP, the cultural sequences at all the sites excavated by Glover show continuity through time. Glover points out that although the economic system practiced by the populations that inhabited these caves changed from hunter-gathering to farming and herding, there is little archaeological evidence for this change that can be detected (Glover 1986: 206). Glover also suggested that cereal agriculture could have been introduced together with the first pottery and animal domesticates; however, no firm evidence in the form of macro plant remains was ever found at any of the sites he excavated to confirm this hypothesis (Glover 1986: 202–212, 229–230). Glover’s work did not just represent the most comprehensive effort in investigating Timor’s prehistory until the 1970s; it was also the last systematic archaeological research in the country during the twentieth century. In September 1975, following Civil War and ­Portugal’s withdraw from its former colony, Indonesia invaded and occupied Portuguese Timor for nearly a quarter of a century. No archaeological research was undertaken during these years, or at least none that resulted in any known publications. The Indonesian occupation of Portuguese Timor lasted from December 1975 to August 1999. During this period, Timor was not just socially and politically isolated from the rest of the world, it was also unattractive for research purposes. Indonesia’s annexation of Timor was never officially recognised by the government of some countries (including Portugal and other Portuguese-speaking countries) or by the United Nations. Australia did formally recognise the annexation, and despite being the leading archaeological influence in the region, the Indonesian government did not permit archaeological research to take place in the eastern part of the Timor Island. As a result, the scientific community and most foreign researchers moved elsewhere, and for 24 years Timor was mostly referred to as ‘former ­Portuguese’ Timor (Glover 1977: 43; Metzner 1977: xxiii), or simply as part of Indonesia. 273

Nuno Vasco Oliveira

Across the globe, the transition to democracy in Portugal after 1974 witnessed a growing sense of anti-colonialism. In terms of research, this meant that institutions operating within the former regime’s framework were suddenly devoid of scientific purpose and much of their budget. All major research projects, such as MAT and others in Timor and elsewhere in the former colonies, simply ceased to exist. During this period, only a couple of papers were published by Portuguese archaeologists on Timor. As no access to the country was possible and resources did not abound, they essentially detail previous works and repeat information from original publications (Lucas et al. 1992). One described materials recovered prior to 1975 but which have never been published (Ramos and Rodrigues 1980). The research environment in Timor would change dramatically after the 1999 vote for Independence and the subsequent UN transition period. This period saw fundamental political change and allowed for wider research interest from Australia, Portugal and elsewhere. After the 1999 referendum, which ultimately led to Independence in May 2002, Timor was governed by the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor in cooperation with East Timorese leaders. Besides gradual political stability, the withdrawal of Indonesian forces and the arrival of the United Nations had the consequence of attracting many international aid agencies and individuals. This also meant that the country, although still politically unstable, could see research activity in several key areas resumed. The East Timor Archaeological Project (ETAP) was a joint project between the ­Australian National University and James Cook University that was initiated in 2000 (Veth et al. 2004; O’Connor et al. 2006). The research questions set by ETAP included possible early interactions between populations from Austronesian and Papuan (or Non-Austronesians) ethnolinguistic groups; the characterisation of the Austronesian cultural ‘package’; the date of initial human settlement in Timor; and the role of Timor in early international trade for the past couple of thousand years. ETAP researchers conducted fieldwork in Timor between 2000 and 2002 and their work resulted in the discovery of a diverse range of archaeological sites, from aceramic shell middens to caves and rock shelters, many of them with rock paintings. The first comprehensive account of ETAP’s work was published in 2003, documenting a series of pre-ceramic shell middens located along the northern coast of Timor, from west of Dili to the eastern tip of the island (Spriggs et al. 2003). Most of these middens constitute eroded remnants of open air temporary camp sites, in use through the mid- to late-Holocene (Spriggs et al. 2003: 51–53). The authors suggest they represent the ‘coastal component of a mobile [hunter-gatherer] economy’ (Spriggs et al. 2003: 54), which was rendered unsustainable with the arrival of the first Neolithic farmers, around 4000–3600 BP. This seems to be in agreement with changes in material culture observed in some caves also excavated, where from around 3800–3600 BP pottery and animal domesticates appear (Spriggs et al. 2003: 58). As the ETAP finished in 2003, O’Connor and several other researchers continued conducting archaeological work in Timor-Leste. To date, many more sites have been located and excavated, expanding our knowledge of Timor’s prehistory and our understanding of how communities in the past behaved and managed the environment around them. Some of the sites excavated, for example, extend the initial occupation of Timor back to more than 40,000 BP (O’Connor 2007; O’Connor et al. 2010; Reepmeyer et al. 2011; Hawkins et al. 2017). This age brings the evidence for the earliest human occupation of Timor within the range of dates accepted for the first colonisation of Australia and New Guinea (Roberts et al. 1994; Thorne et al. 1999; O’Connor and Chappell 2003; Hiscock 2008; O’Connell and Allen 2015; Wood et al. 2016; Clarkson et al. 2017). The dates also strengthen the argument for suggesting Timor may have been a stepping-stone in that colonisation process (Birdsell 1977; Butlin 1993: 33–34; O’Connor et al. 2002; O’Connor 2007). 274

Legacies of the past and role of archaeology and cultural heritage

Results of interest from recent archaeological investigations include confirmation that some extinct animal species such as the Stegodon sp., inhabited the island of Timor before the arrival of the first humans and became extinct before their arrival (Louys et al. 2016). Evidence was also found for knowledge of deep-sea pelagic fishing more than 40,000 years before the present (O’Connor et al. 2011) as well as other complex fishing technologies in the form of shell hooks from ca. 10,000 years ago (O’Connor and Veth 2005). The presence of marsupial cuscus (Phalanger orientalis) indicates evidence of cultural contacts between New Guinea and the Australasian region at about the same time (O’Connor 2007); and it is clear that plant and agricultural resource management systems were already in place during the final Pleistocene and throughout the Holocene with use of a diverse range of food crops before the arrival of the first European (Oliveira 2008). Finally, archaeologists have also investigated fortified settlements that were built in the past thousand years or so before European contact, many of which were still in use during Portuguese colonial rule and until the mid-twentieth century (Lape 2006: 293; Lape and Chin-Yung 2008). In the past two decades, a significant number of rock art sites were also documented (O’Connor 2003; Arifin and Delaghe 2004; Aubert et al. 2007; O’Connor and Oliveira 2007; Lape et al. 2007; O’Connor et al. 2010b; Galipaud et al. 2016). O’Connor (2003) suggested that East Timorese rock art shares many affinities with the larger group of sites from the Western Pacific, characterised by Ballard as being part of an ‘Austronesian Painting ­Tradition’ and associated with the arrival of Austronesian speakers in Island Southeast Asia and the Pacific (Ballard 1992). The fact that some of this rock art exists in sites with evidence of human occupation dating back to more than 30,000 years, suggests that some East ­Timorese rock art may be much older than initially predicted. New methods based on direct Uranium-series dating of calcite depositions covering pigment have recently been used in Timor-Leste (Aubert et al. 2007; O’Connor et al. 2010), and a new rock art dating project is currently being developed by the author and other researchers, aiming at directly dating some of the rock art in the Tutuala region.

Promoting archaeological and historical knowledge Despite the amount of historical and archaeological information available in Timor-Leste today, much of such knowledge remains foreign to most Timorese. Having to deal with different development priorities and a myriad of educational challenges, the country’s rich past has still not received the attention that it deserves and the appropriate dissemination of such knowledge to a wider audience is yet to take place. Since regaining independence in August 2002, Timor-Leste has made significant progress in rebuilding its road, electricity and telecommunications networks. There is also much improved access to health and education services, developed social cohesion measures aimed at decreasing poverty rates and, above all, the achievement of progressive and significant national stability. The growth of Timor-Leste and its progressive conversion into a more developed and sustainable country presents, nevertheless, considerable challenges. First, because the state’s financial resources are not inexhaustible and the development of the past few years, notwithstanding a marked diversification and growth of the private sector, still depends mainly on the state and the revenues from the exploitation of natural resources. On the other hand, the trend of growth and development creates pressure on different aspects of Timor-Leste’s culture, which is changing rapidly and still needs effective institutional and legal frameworks, qualified human resources to ensure its safeguard and management, and adequate financial resources. 275

Nuno Vasco Oliveira

In the past few years, there has been significant improvement of the institutional and technical capacity of the culture sector, which, in addition to a legal and strategic framework, has developed partnerships and cooperation with national and foreign institutions; hired and trained staff, and implemented a set of programmes and activities in accordance with coherent annual plans, properly framed in the National Cultural Policy and approved in 2009 (https://www.cultura.gov.tl/sites/default/files/National_policy_culture_english. pdf ) and the Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030 (http://timor-leste.gov.tl/wp-content/ uploads/2011/07/Timor-Leste-Strategic-Plan-2011-20301.pdf ). The culture sector currently has clear programmatic lines and an organic structure that seeks to respond to the many challenges it still faces. Part of the Ministry of Education and Culture since the Seventh Constitutional Government took office, the General Directorate of Culture has four national directorates under its tutelage, each with direct responsibilities on the fundamental projects of this sector. The Department of Libraries is responsible for the creation of the National Library and a network of public libraries. The Department of Museums is responsible for the National Collection, currently with more than 1,000 cultural objects, and for the project of the future National Museum. The Department of Cultural Heritage conducts the inventory, management and safeguard of the country’s cultural heritage, in close cooperation with staff responsible for culture in the districts, and the Department of Arts, Culture and Cultural Creative Industries, in coordination with the Implementation Unit of the future Academy of Arts, develops work to support the artists and creatives of TimorLeste, seeking to establish an academy of arts in the country. All these areas of action, however, have in common the lack of qualified human resources to ensure the proper development of planned programmes and activities, thereby limiting the state’s role as a cultural heritage guardian. Since its formal establishment in 2002, the culture sector has sought to establish partnerships with national and international organisations to provide training opportunities for its staff. Many staff still lack qualifications in relevant areas. However since its formal establishment in 2002, many of the culture sector staff have benefited from targeted training provided by international institutions. They include UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization), SEAMEO SPAFA (Southeast Asian Regional Centre for Archaeology and Fine Arts), IRCI (International Research Centre for Intangible Cultural Heritage in the Asia-Pacific Region), MAGNT (the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory) and other international organisations in the areas of museums, libraries, arts and cultural heritage management. The challenges posed by the lack of qualified human resources are a consequence of the reduced financial capacity that has characterised the culture sector in Timor-Leste over the past years. It is simply not a priority of government support at this time and although some key projects in this sector such as the National Library, the National Museum and the ­Academy of Arts and Cultural Creative Industries, have been part of the political priorities of successive governments and are part of the Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030, this has not translated into direct investment. Despite these limitations, the culture sector within government has been active in promoting some of the results from recent research, by publishing books and other materials of a general nature on different aspects of the country’s culture and history and making them available on its website (www.cultura.gov.tl). Government has also organised workshops, national and international conferences, and exhibitions on a regular basis, as a way to disseminate its work and priority projects within relevant stakeholders. Most importantly, culture has been actively engaging with the Ministry of Education (of which had been part of until 2012 and is now again an integral component) in developing cultural content for different 276

Legacies of the past and role of archaeology and cultural heritage

school curricula. This includes a history curriculum for basic education. But much more remains to be done and it is safe to say that most historical and archaeological information derived from the past two decades of intense research is, for the most part, still unknown to the majority of East Timorese.

The role of cultural heritage in contemporary Timor-Leste: a desired future The short-lived Seventh Constitutional Government programme for the culture sector states that one of the objectives for the period 2017–2022 includes the establishment of a ‘vibrant creative industry and the promotion of national culture’. The planned government programme details more specific objectives, including the mainstreaming of culture in education policies and the process of governance as a whole. There is an expressed need for inventory, documentation, study and dissemination of the country’s cultural heritage and the qualification of human resources in areas relevant to the culture sector; institutional development and sustainable management of cultural institutions such as the National Library and Museum, an Academy of Arts and Cultural Creative Industries, an Institute of Cultural Heritage and cultural centres in the municipalities; and the development of a policy to support the country’s arts and artists, as well as support for artistic training through the development of curricular programmes and contents. All the above initiatives should be developed with a focus on the country’s historical and geographical specificities, by strengthening ties with member countries of the Community of Portuguese Speaking Countries, the Association of Southeast Asian Nations and the Pacific; and through the preservation of the rich linguistic diversity that characterises Timor-Leste today. Whether or not the same commitment to arts and cultural support is demonstrated in the 2018 election of the Eighth Constitutional ­G overnment remains a work in progress. The Timor-Leste Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030, published in 2011 as a 20-year vision reflecting the aspirations of the East Timorese people, foresees the development of key projects in the culture sector during this period, including the construction of a National Library and Museum, and the safeguarding of Timor-Leste’s rich cultural heritage, including the protection of traditional practices and local crafts. It also envisages the development of theatre and dance companies; the investment in cultural tourism and in cultural centres across the country. There is an expression for the establishment of an Academy of Arts and Cultural Creative Industries, stating that ‘by 2020 Timor-Leste will have a vibrant creative industries sector that is making a significant contribution to our economy and our sense of national identity’ (RDTL 2011: 62). Building on such vision, over the past years several policy documents were approved, aiming at providing a legal basis to the culture sector in key areas of development. These included the legal establishment of the National Library of Timor-Leste, the Academy of Arts and Cultural Creative Industries and of District Cultural Centres; a new Cultural Heritage Law; and the ratification by the National Parliament of some of UNESCO’s most relevant cultural conventions. These legal and strategic provisions represent a much-need recognition that the culture sector needs to be perceived as a key area of development, such as defined by the 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development (http://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/ development-agenda/). The state’s investment in sustainable cultural policies, associated with the preservation of cultural heritage, will guarantee national identity and foster values of citizenship, peace and social cohesion. If properly linked to cultural and artistic 277

Nuno Vasco Oliveira

endeavour, it can also foster economic development through cultural creative industries and ensure that the country will make use of its cultural resources as a trigger for income generation, poverty reduction and economic growth. Achieving these objectives, however, will be a gradual and progressive process over the next years, in some cases well beyond 2022 or 2030. At a moment when Timor-Leste still lacks qualified staff in many areas of relevance to the culture sector, graining and capacity building programmes should be developed through the establishment of partnerships with internationally recognised institutions that are able to assist both in-country and out-of-country. In addition to a policy that facilitates scholarships to study abroad (which already exists), government should also ensure that the qualification of human resources in the culture sector takes place in Timor-Leste. Besides the more immediate training of existing government staff, this also needs to be a long-term development process, through curricular development at all school levels, including tertiary education institutions. At present, graduate or postgraduate studies in relevant areas of knowledge, such as history and archaeology, museology, cultural heritage management or information and library studies, amongst others, are still to be developed in Timor-Leste. The national government should continue playing a proactive role in ensuring that the programmes and projects of the culture sector are representative of the country’s main objectives in education and that they are also mainstreamed across all areas of governance. Only then can government guarantee that institutions such as the National Library, the National Museum and the Academy of Arts and Cultural Creative Industries are developed with a national purpose, that of safeguarding and promoting Timor-Leste’s cultural heritage, and of supporting cultural creative industries that can contribute to the country’s national identity and economic growth. From a financial point of view, the sustainability of the programmes and activities developed by the culture sector should be ensured through coherent annual budgets, progressively higher and in line with the objectives set for the period ahead. In terms of qualification of human resources, however, the investment should be immediate, to ensure a return in the shortest possible time, as it is not possible to establish national cultural institutions and manage them in a sustainable manner without the existence of qualified staff in all relevant areas of knowledge. The realignment of the priorities of the culture sector with education, on one hand, and the fact that for the first time culture integrates the main social objectives of government for the next five years, suggest that this may be the beginning of a new a cycle – one in which culture finally assumes a decisive role in the country’s development process as a truly cross-cutting element to all areas of governance. Only in such a role will the culture sector contribute to a growing sense of belonging and national identity for all East Timorese, whilst contributing to the social and economic development of Timor-Leste through the preservation and sharing of its culture and history.

Acknowledgements The author would like to thank the Gerda Henkel Foundation, in Germany, and National Geographic Foundation for grants provided in 2017 that allowed the time to write this chapter. Much of the information provided here results from a doctoral dissertation conducted at the Australian National University between 2004 and 2008, as well as from working as an adviser to the government of Timor-Leste for nearly a decade after that. To all my East Timorese colleagues in the culture sector, thank you. 278

Legacies of the past and role of archaeology and cultural heritage

Notes 1 Estado Novo (‘New State’) was the name by which the regime in Portugal that lasted from 1933 to 1974 was known. It was led by António de Oliveira Salazar (1933–1968) and later by Marcello Caetano (1968–1974). 2 The JIU (‘Overseas’ Research Body’) was a national institution established by the Estado Novo authoritarian regime, which aimed at conducting research in the former Portuguese colonies. 3 Several attempts were made to recover Almeida’s field notes, which he took home after retiring from his position as Head of MAT. In 2007, I was told that they were kept by his daughter, Maria Emília Castro e Almeida, who later replaced him as Head of the CPA, but were never returned to that institution.

References Almeida, A. (1954). IV Congresso de Pré-história do Extremo Oriente. Garcia de Orta II:349–357. Almeida, A. (1960). Contribuição para o Estudo do Neolítico de Timor Português. Memórias da Junta de Investigações do Ultramar 16:125–141. Almeida, A. (1967). A contribution to the study of rock paintings in Portuguese Timor. In: ­Solheim W.  G., ed. Archaeology at the Eleventh Pacific Science Congress. Tokyo, August-September 1966. ­Honolulu: University of Hawaii, pp. 69–76. Almeida, A. (1994). O Oriente de Expressão Portuguesa. Lisboa: Fundação Oriente/Centro de Estudos Orientais. Almeida, A., & G. Zbyszewski (1967). A contribution to the study of the prehistory of Portuguese Timor – lithic industries. In: W. G. Solheim II, ed. Archaeology at the Eleventh Pacific Science Congress: Papers presented at the Pacific Science Congress, Tokyo, August-September 1966. Honolulu: University of Hawaii, pp. 55–67. Arnold, J. R., & W. F. Libby (1951). Radiocarbon dates. Science 113:111–120. Aubert, M., S. O’Connor, M. McCulloch, G. Mortimer, A. Watchman, & M. Richer-La Flèche (2007). Uranium series dating rock art in East Timor. Journal of Archaeological Science, 34:991–996. Ballard, C. (1992). Painted rock art sites in western Melanesia: Locational evidence for an ‘Austronesian’ tradition. In: J. McDonald & P. Haskovec, eds. State of the Art. Regional rock art studies in Australia and Melanesia. Melbourne: Australian Rock Art Research Association, pp. 94–103. Birdsell, J. B. (1977). The recalibration of a paradigm for the first peopling of greater Australia. In: J. Allen, J. Golson, & R. Jones, eds. Sunda and Sahul: Prehistoric Studies in Southeast Asia, Melanesia and Australia. London: Academic Press, pp. 113–167. Butlin, N. G. (1993). Economics and the Dreamtime: A Hypothetical History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Castelo, C. (2017). Ruy Cinatti, the French–Portuguese mission and the construct of East Timor as an ethnographic site. History and Anthropology 28(5):630–652. Cinatti, R. (1950). Reconhecimento preliminar das formações florestais no Timor Português. Lisboa: Junta de Investigações Coloniais. Cinatti, R. (1950b). Explorações botânicas em Timor. Lisboa: Junta de Investigações Coloniais. Cinatti, R. (1950c). Esboço Histórico do Sândalo no Timor Português. Lisboa: Ministério das Colónias – Junta de Investigações Coloniais. Cinatti R. (1963). As pinturas rupestres de Timor. Colóquio. Revista de Artes e Letras 23:49–59. Cinatti, R., L. de Almeida, & S. Mendes (1987). Arquitectura Timorense. Lisboa: IICT. Clarkson, C., Z. Jacobs, B. Marwick, R. Fullagar, L. Wallis, M. Smith, R. G. Roberts, E. Hayes, K. Lowe, X. Carah, & S. A Florin (2017). Human occupation of northern Australia by 65,000 years ago. Nature 547:306–310. Fabião, C. (1996). Archaeology and nationalism: The Portuguese case. In: M. Díaz-Andreu, T. ­Champion, eds. Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe. London: UCL Press, pp. 90–107. Fernandes, M. S. (2007). ‘A Preponderância dos factores Exógenos na Rejeição do Plano Português de Descolonização para Timor-Leste’, 1974–1975. Negócios Estrangeiros 10:90–171. Gageonet, R., & M. Lemoine (1958). Contribuition à la Connaissance de la Géologie de la Province Portugaise de Timor. Lisboa: Junta de Investigações Coloniais. Glover, I. (1969). Radiocarbon dates from Portuguese Timor. Archaeology and Physical Anthropology in Oceania 4:107–112.

279

Nuno Vasco Oliveira Glover, I. (1971). Prehistoric research in Timor. In: D. J. Mulvaney & J. Golson, eds. Aboriginal Man and Environment in Australia. Canberra: Australian National University, pp. 158–181. Glover, I. (1972). Excavations in Timor: A Study of Economic Change and Cultural Continuity in Prehistory. Canberra: Australian National University. Glover, I. (1973). Island Southeast Asia and the settlement of Australia. In: D.E. Strong, ed. ­Archaeological Theory and Practice. London: Seminar Press, pp. 105–129. Glover, I. (1977). The late stone age in eastern Indonesia. World Archaeology 9:42–61. Glover, I. (1979). Prehistoric plant remains from Southeast Asia, with special reference to rice. In: M. Taddei, ed. South Asian Archaeology 1977. Papers from the Fourth International Confrence of the ­A ssociation of South Asian Archaeologists in Western Europe, Instituto Universitario Orientale, Naples. Naples: Instituto Universitario Orientale, pp. 7–37. Glover, I. (1986). Archaeology in Eastern Timor, 1966-67. Canberra: RSPAS, Australian National University. Gonçalves, M. M., A. P. S. Cardoso, N. S. Siong, & M. S. Min (1974). Melhoramento da Cultura do Arroz em Timor. Introdução e selecção de variedades e primeiros ensaios de adubação. Lisboa: Junta de Investigações Científicas do Ultramar. Gunn, G. C. (1999). Timor Lorosae: 500 Anos. Macau: Livros do Oriente. Hawkins, S., S. O’Connor, T. R. Maloney, M. Litster, S. Kealy, J. N. Fenner, K. Aplin, C. Boulanger, S. Brockwell, R. Willan, & E. Piotto (2017). Oldest human occupation of Wallacea at Laili Cave, Timor-Leste, shows broad-spectrum foraging responses to late Pleistocene environments. Quaternary Science Reviews 171(1):58–72. Hiscock, P. (2008). Archaeology of Ancient Australia. Oxon: Routledge. Kealy, S., J. Louys, & S. O’Connor (2016). Islands under the Sea: A review of early modern human dispersal routes and migration hypotheses through Wallacea. Journal of Island and Coastal Archaeology 11(3):364–384. Kealy, S., J. Louys, & S. O’Connor (2017). Reconstructing palaeogeography and inter-island visibility in the Wallacean archipelago during the likely period of sahul colonization, 65–45000 years ago. Archaeological Prospection 24(3):259–272. Lape, P. V. (2006). Chronology of fortified settlements in east Timor. Journal of Island & Coastal ­Archaeology 1:285–297. Lape, P. V., & C. Chin-Yun (2008). Fortification as a human response to late Holocene climate change in East Timor. Archaeology in Oceania 43:11–21. Lape, P. V., S. O’Connor, & N. Burningham (2007). Rock art: A potential source of information about past maritime technology in the South-East Asia-Pacific region. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 36:238–253. Lucas, M. P., P. Cardim, M. C. Neto, & M. E. C. Almeida (1992). Breves notas sobre a contribuição da Missão Antropológica do Centro de Antropologia e seus antecessores na arqueologia de Timor. Leba 7:269–276. ­ ortugais Mendes Corrêa, A., A. de Almeida, & C. França (1956). Nouvelles stations lithiques du Timor P et la prehistoire de l’Indonesie orientale. In: Crónica del IV Congresso Internacional de ­Ciencias Prehistóricas y Protohistóricas (Madrid, 1954). Saragoza, pp. 295–298. Mendes Corrêa, A., A. de Almeida, & C. França (1964). Sobre alguns exemplares com fácies Paleolítica de Timor Português. Memórias da Junta de Investigações do Ultramar 50:15–33. Metzner, J. K. (1977). Man and Environment in Eastern Timor: A Geoecological Analysis of the ­Baucau-Viqueque Area as a Possible Basis for Regional Planning. Canberra: ANU. Mulvaney, D. J. (1969). The Prehistory of Australia. London: Tames & Hudson. Mulvaney, D. J., & J. Kaminga (1999). Prehistory of Australia. Washington, DC and London: S­ mithsonian Institution Press. O’Connell, J. F., & J. Allen (2015). The process, biotic impact, and global implications of the human colonization of Sahul about 47,000 years ago. Journal of Archaeological Science 56:73–84. O’Connor S., K. Aplin, E. St Pierre, & Y.-X. Feng (2010). Faces of the ancestors revealed: Discovery and dating of a Pleistocene-age petroglyph in Lene Hara cave, East Timor. Antiquity 84:649–665. O’Connor, S. (2007). New evidence from East Timor contributes to our understanding of earliest modern colonisation east of the Sunda shelf. Antiquity 81:523–535. O’Connor, S., & J. Chappell (2003). Colonisation and coastal subsistence in Australia and Papua New Guinea: Different timing, different modes? In: C. Sand, ed. Pacific Archaeology: Assessments and prospects. Proceedings of the International Conference for the 50th anniversary of the first Lapita excavation,

280

Legacies of the past and role of archaeology and cultural heritage Koné-Nouméa 2002. Nouméa: Département Archéologie, Service des Musées et du Patrimoine de Nouvelle-Calédonie, pp. 17–32. O’Connor, S., & P. Veth (2005). Early Holocene shell fish hooks from Lene Hara Cave, East Timor establish complex fishing technology was in use in Island South East Asia five thousand years before Austronesian settlement. Antiquity+ 79:249–256. O’Connor, S., A. Barham, M. Spriggs, P. Veth, K. Aplin, & E. St Pierre (2010). Cave archaeology and sampling issues in the tropics: A case study from Lene Hara, a 42,000 year old occupation site in East Timor, island Southeast Asia. Australian Archaeology 71:29–40. O’Connor, S., M. Spriggs, & P. Veth (2002). Excavation at Lene Hara cave establishes occupation in East Timor at least 30,000–35,000 years ago. Antiquity 76:45–50. O’Connor, S., M. Spriggs, & P. Veth, eds. (2006). The Archaeology of the Aru Islands, Eastern Indonesia. Canberra: The Australian National University. O’Connor, S., & N. V. Oliveira (2007). Inter- and intraregional variation in the Austronesian painting tradition: A view from East Timor. Asian Perspectives 46:389–403. Oliveira, N. V. (2008). Subsistence Archaeobotany: Food production and the agricultural transition in East Timor. Canberra: The Australian National University (Unpublished PhD thesis: http://­palaeoworks.anu. edu.au). Ramos, M., & M. C. Rodrigues (1980). Espólios Sepulcrais Timorenses. Leba 3:47–57. RDTL, REPÚBLICA DEMOCRÁTICA DE TIMOR-LESTE (2011). Timor-Leste Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030. Dili, RDTL. Reepmeyer, C., S. O’Connor, & S. Brockwell (2011). Long-term obsidian use at the Jerimalai rock shelter in East Timor. Archaeology in Oceania 46(2):85–90. Sarasin, F. (1936). Beiträge zur Prähistorie der Inseln Timor und Roti.Verhandlungen der ­Naturforschenden Gesellschaft 47:1–59. Schouten, M. J. (2001). Antropologia e colonialismo em Timor português. Lusotopie 8:157–171. Smith, C., & H. Burke (2007). Digging It Up Down Under. A Practical Guide to Doing Archaeology in Australia. New York: Springer. Spriggs, M, S. O’Connor, P. Veth (2003). Vestiges of early pre-agricultural economy in the landscape of East Timor: Recent research. In: A. Karlström & A. Källén, eds. Fishbones and Glittering Emblems. Southeast Asian Archaeology 2002. Stockholm: Museum of Far Eastern Antiquities - Östasiatiska Museet, pp. 49–58. Stilwell, P. (1995). A Condição Humana em Ruy Cinatti. Lisboa: Editorial Presença. Trigger, B. G. (2006). A History of Archaeological Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Veth P., S. O’Connor, & M. Spriggs (2004). Changing research perspectives from Australia’s d­ oorstep: The joint Australian-Indonesian Aru islands initiative and the archaeology of East Timor ­project. In: T. Murray, ed. Archaeology from Australia. Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing, pp. 209–230. Wood, R., Z. Jacobs, D. Vannieuwenhuyse, J. Balme, S. O’Connor, & Whitau, R. (2016). Towards an accurate and precise chronology for the colonization of Australia: The example of Riwi, ­K imberley, Western Australia. PLoS One 11(9):e0160123. doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.0160123.

281

Regional relations

21 Settling Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

Introduction Since Timor-Leste’s independence in 2002, the issue of settling Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries, both on land and sea, has been a recurrent point of concern friction between Timor-Leste and its neighbours, Australia and Indonesia. Geographically, the main part component of Timor-Leste’s territory encompasses the eastern part of the island of Timor, whilst ­Indonesian West Timor covers most of the western half of the island. The exception is the coastal enclave of Oecussi, which is part of Timor-Leste (see Map 21.1). This means that

Map 21.1  Timor-Leste and Timor Sea location map Source: I Made Andi Arsana and Clive Schofield.

285

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

Indonesia and Timor-Leste have two distinct segments of land boundary to delimit and demarcate, neither of which has been finalised. As a coastal state, Timor-Leste is entitled to advance claims to maritime jurisdiction ­offshore. As a result of sharing Timor with Indonesia, coupled with the proximity of ­Indonesian islands to the north and east, as well as the presence of Australia located to the southeast, Timor-Leste, in common with many coastal states, is unable to claim maritime zones to the full extent allowable under the international law of the sea. Where overlapping maritime claims occur, a potential maritime boundary also exists. Accordingly, ­Timor-Leste has potential maritime boundaries with Indonesia to the north and east of Timor in the ­Ombai and Wetar Straits, between the Indonesian and Timorese ‘halves’ of the island, as well as with Australia, to the south in the Timor Sea. This chapter outlines the importance of settling Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries before reviewing progress in relation to land boundary delimitation and demarcation. Past practice in relation to maritime boundaries and joint arrangements in the Timor Sea is then reviewed and recent progress towards settling maritime boundaries between ­Timor-Leste and both Australia and Indonesia assessed. A concluding section highlights progress and challenges in the settlement of Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries.

The importance of defining the territorial and maritime extent of Timor-Leste As a relatively young nation, defining the extent of its sovereignty, as well as its sovereign rights offshore, is an issue of particular concern to Timor-Leste. Indeed, the settlement of Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries can be considered to be fundamental to the country’s sovereignty and security, as well as its long-term economic and development prospects. The significance that Timor-Leste has attached to defining and settling its international limits and boundaries serves to underscore the enduring significance that territorial states place on possession of a defined, bounded territory – something that is in keeping with the legal requirements for statehood (Montevideo Convention, Article 1). The finalisation of the delimitation and demarcation of Timor-Leste’s land boundaries with Indonesia would be symbolic of the completion of Timor-Leste’s journey towards becoming an independent state following occupation and incorporation into Indonesia from 1975 to 2001 (Strating 2017a). Resolution of Timor-Leste’s land boundaries would arguably deliver a sense of closure to that tumultuous period and is strongly linked to East Timorese national identity. Finalisation of these issues therefore represents an important and geopolitically charged step, as well as being an important component of future transboundary relations. The aim of achieving finality in Timor-Leste’s international boundary arrangements extends to its offshore spaces. Here, a succession of temporary joint resource development and management arrangements have been established, initially between Australia and Indonesia, and following Timorese independence, between Australia and Timor-Leste. These maritime jurisdictional arrangements have, over the years, been essential to the development of offshore hydrocarbon reserves located beneath the Timor Sea and thus the realisation of revenues derived from them. These revenues remain crucial to Timor-Leste’s economy, as they are estimated to provide over 90% of the national budget and 80% of its gross domestic product (Strating 2017b). Timor-Leste’s strong twin desires to delimit a permanent maritime boundary with Australia in the Timor Sea and secure access to oil and gas resources, particularly the Greater Sunrise complex of fields, is therefore a critical issue with significant implications for 286

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

Timor-Leste’s economic future. This is all the more so as the key field presently sustaining the Timor-Leste Petroleum Fund, the Bayu-Undan field, is anticipated to cease production between 2020 and 2022 (Evans 2016).

Challenges in finalising the delimitation and demarcation of Timor-Leste’s land boundaries Timor-Leste’s territory equates to the extent of Portuguese possessions on Timor in keeping with the principle of uti possidetis juris. This well-established international legal ­principle, Latin for ‘as you possess under law’, essentially means that colonial-era boundaries are inherited by successor states. Portugal was a colonial power in the region from 1702 to 1975. Timor-Leste’s land boundaries with Indonesia are therefore based on agreements between the Dutch colonial authorities on behalf of the Dutch East Indies, now Indonesia, and ­Portugal on behalf of what is now Timor-Leste. These boundaries cover two segments: first, an eastern segment between the eastern and western ‘halves’ of Timor, that is, between the Indonesian western part of the island (part of the Indonesian Province of East Nusa ­Tenggara) and the main part of Timor-Leste to the east. The second, western segment of Indonesia-Timor-Leste land boundaries is between Timor-Leste’s Oecussi enclave and ­Indonesia’s East Nusa Tenggara (see Map 21.2). The process of the delimitation and demarcation of land boundaries between Indonesia and Timor-Leste has proceeded through bilateral discussions from 2003 but has yet to be completed. At the time of writing, approximately 97% of the land boundary considered as a whole, that is, both sections of land boundary considered together, has been concluded and the two countries remain in the negotiation for the rest of the pending segments (BIG 2017). On the Indonesian side, the technical aspect of the process involves Indonesia’s ­National ­Coordinating Agency for Surveys and Mapping (renamed the Geospatial Information

Map 21.2  The enclave of Oecussi Source: Andi Arsana and Clive Schofield.

287

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

Agency), the Army and research institutions/universities. For example, Universitas Gadjah Mada (Gadjah Mada University), especially the Department of Geodetic Engineering, was involved in the process of establishing Common Border Datum Reference Frame, which is essential for the definition of the coordinates of border points between the two countries. The main challenges in finalising the delimitation and demarcation of Timor-Leste’s land boundaries with Indonesia relate to differences between the interpretation of c­ olonial-era agreements in Dutch and the Portuguese and differing societal perceptions and traditions in border areas on the correct location of boundary line. The unsettled areas along the boundary are Noel Besi-Citrana (around 1,000 hectares) and Bijael Sunan-Oben (around 140 ­hectares). Uncertainty over the disposition of these relatively small but, critically, populated areas has held up completion of the delimitation and demarcation of the land ­boundaries between Indonesia and Timor-Leste. The visit of Xanana Gusmão of Timor-Leste to Jakarta in order to meet the Indonesian coordinating minister for politics, law and security, Wiranto, on 12 September 2017 marked a positive intention of the two countries to find solutions for their pending boundary segments (Polhukam 2017). The finalisation of the Indonesia-Timor-Leste land boundary has long been viewed as important from a maritime perspective on the basis that discussions on maritime boundary delimitation might only begin once the terminal points of land boundary on the coast have been determined. The 2017 meeting in Jakarta, which was also attended by Retno Marsudi, the Indonesian foreign minister, concluded with an optimistic statement that the issue of Noel Besi-Citrana and Bijael Sunan-Oben was to be resolved by the end of 2017 (Polhukam 2017). It is intriguing to observe how optimistic the two sides are about resolving the issue. At the time of writing, the anticipated progress on the final resolution of land boundary issues had yet to eventuate.

Claims to maritime jurisdiction Timor-Leste became a party to the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (LOSC) (UN 1982) on 8 January 2013. The LOSC is the key international treaty governing ocean affairs, including maritime claims, limits and boundaries. Both Australia and Indonesia, the other littoral states to the Timor Sea, are also parties to LOSC (UN 2018). The LOSC provides for a system of national zones of maritime jurisdiction predominantly measured to set distances offshore from baselines along the coast. This system prescribes a territorial sea where consensus was reached on a maximum limit of 12 nautical miles (M) (LOSC Articles 3 and 4); a contiguous zone within which the coastal state may ‘exercise the control necessary’ to prevent or punish infringements of its customs, fiscal, immigration or sanitary laws out to a maximum limit of 24 M (LOSC Article 33). In a major development, the Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) was extended out to 200 M from agreed baselines (LOSC Article 57). Australia, Indonesia and Timor-Leste all claim the full suite of maritime zones provided for under the LOSC with Timor-Leste doing so through its law on the Maritime Borders of the Territory of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste of 23 July 2002 (Timor-Leste 2002). In one sense, therefore, Timor-Leste’s maritime limits are well established. However, where maritime zones overlap a potential maritime boundary exists. In the absence of such a delimitation exercise, overlapping claims may lead to the emergence of a maritime boundary dispute. This scenario applies to Indonesia and Timor-Leste and, despite the conclusion of a maritime boundary treaty in March 2018, potentially still lingers between Australia and Timor-Leste concerning the development of Timor Sea resources (see below). 288

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

Previous maritime agreements in the Timor Sea In the early 1970s, prior to Timor-Leste’s independence, Australia and Indonesia entered into negotiations towards the delimitation of their continental shelf boundaries in the Timor Sea (Australia-Indonesia 1972). The timing of the negotiations leading to the conclusion of  the Australia-Indonesia continental shelf agreement was a critical factor. This was because the negotiations between Australia and Indonesia occurred in the immediate aftermath of the International Court of Justice (ICJ) issuing its 1969 Judgment in the North Sea Continental Shelf cases finding that ‘natural prolongation’ should be a key consideration in delimiting the continental shelf (ICJ 1969). This allowed Australia to argue that the Timor Trough, which reaches depths in excess of 3,000 m and is located much closer to Timor than to Australia, should provide the basis of the continental shelf boundary. These continental shelf boundaries concluded were not, however, continuous b­ ecause of the existence at that time of Portuguese Timor. In 1975, Indonesia subsequently occupied and ­subsequently annexed what was then Portuguese Timor (the future Timor-Leste) in 1975, and the ­Australian-Indonesian boundary was divided into two sections, framing what ­became popularly known as the ‘Timor Gap’ (see Maps 21.1 and 21.3). Negotiations between ­Australia and the Portuguese authorities to, in essence, close the Timor Gap had yet to occur by the mid-1970s when the Portuguese administration ended. Although the Revolutionary Front of Independent ­ ortugal on 28 November East Timor (FRETILIN) declared Timor-Leste’s independence from P 1975, nine days later Indonesian armed forces invaded and occupied Timor-Leste, which was then formally incorporated into Indonesia as its 27th province (Timur-Timur) on 17 July 1976. Indonesia’s actions resulted in widespread international condemnation including ­several UN resolutions calling for Timor-Leste’s population to be afforded the right of self-­determination. Nonetheless, Australia subsequently acknowledged Indonesia’s de facto ­sovereignty over Timor-Leste in January 1978 and gave its de jure recognition to the Indonesian position in March 1979 (PCA 2018: 8). By the time that Australia and Indonesia came to negotiate delimitation in the Timor Gap, the international legal circumstances had evolved considerably. In particular, in its judgement on the Libya/Malta case of 1985, the ICJ, on the basis of developments in the international law of the sea including the conclusion of LOSC and the introduction of the EEZ concept, effectively dismissed any role for geophysical factors in determining the course of boundary delimitation within 200 M of the coast (ICJ 1985: para.39). In light of these developments, Indonesia resolutely refused to simply ‘join up’ the terminal points of the existing continental shelf boundaries defining the Timor Gap (Kaye 2003: 54; Schofield 2007: 193). Eventually the deadlock was resolved through negotiation of a joint zone solution – the Timor Gap Zone of Cooperation (Australia-Indonesia 1989). The Timor Gap Zone of Cooperation covered an area of 60,500 km² and effectively plugged the Timor Gap. It was divided into three subzones – a central Zone A, where revenues were to be shared on a 50:50 basis; a smaller Zone B to the south, where sharing was on the ratio 90:10 in favour of Australia; and a narrow Zone C, where the ratio was 90:10 in favour of Indonesia (see Map 21.3). Concerning division of jurisdiction over the water column, subsequent agreements between Australia and Indonesia were achieved predominantly on the basis of the median line between opposite coasts, notably through a 1981 agreement on a provisional fisheries surveillance and enforcement line (Australia-Indonesia 1981) and a subsequent agreement on delimitation of the EEZ in 1997 (Australia-Indonesia 1997). The latter agreement has yet to be ratified and enter into force, however. This has created the unusual scenario of portions 289

Map 21.3  T  imor Gap Zone of Cooperation Source: I Made Andi Arsana and Clive Schofield.

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

of the continental shelf of the central and northern Timor Sea being under A ­ ustralian ­jurisdiction by virtue of the 1972 seabed treaty with Indonesia having jurisdiction over the overlying water column thanks to the 1981 and 1997 agreements (Bernard and Schofield 2017; Herriman and Tsamenyi 2009). Following the referendum on independence in Timor-Leste, and subsequent violence (CIA 2017), Australia led a UN-sponsored intervention, the International Force in East Timor (UN 2002). Prior to formal independence, administration over Timor-Leste fell to an interim international body, the UN Mission in East Timor (UNTAET). UNTAET entered into interim arrangements in order to provide stability and certainty for ongoing oil and gas development efforts within the Australia-Indonesia Zone of Cooperation in the Timor Sea but without prejudice to future position (Australia-Timor-Leste 2002a). Timor-Leste regained independence on 20 May 2002 as the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste. On the same day, Australia and Timor-Leste entered into a further interim arrangement, through the Timor Sea Treaty (TST) (Australia-Timor-Leste 2002b). The TST established a Joint Petroleum Development Area (JPDA) which encompasses the central part of the old Australia-Indonesia joint zone (Zone A). Although revenue-sharing in Zone A of the Timor Gap Zone of Cooperation had previously been on a 50:50 basis between Australia and Indonesia, within the new JPDA it was agreed that Timor-Leste would receive 90% and Australia 10% of government revenues (see Map 21.4) (Schofield 2007: 195). The JPDA includes the Bayu-Undan natural gas field, which contains recoverable reserves of around 3.4 trillion cubic feet of natural gas and 400 million barrels of liquid h ­ ydrocarbons. The first phase of production from the field became operational in March 2004. As of early 2017, the field had generated approximately USD 23.5 billion for Timor-Leste and around USD 2.4 billion for Australia (PCA 2018: 13). This field is, however, mature and likely to cease production by 2022. Under the terms of Annex E of the TST, Australia and Timor-Leste agreed to unitise the Greater Sunrise oil fields on the basis that 20.1% of the field lies within the JPDA with the remaining 79.9% falling within what Australia regards as seabed areas, over which it holds uncontested sovereign rights by virtue of the fact that they lie to the south of its agreed delimitation with Indonesia. Under these terms, therefore, Timor-Leste would benefit from just an 18.1% share of revenues deriving from this field according to the 90:10 split in revenues within the JPDA. A Memorandum of Understanding on the unitization of the oil and gas fields, which straddle the interim joint zone and seabed to the east of the zone, was signed in 2002 (Australia-East Timor 2002). In early 2003, a formal agreement on unitization was concluded, which is often termed the Sunrise International Unitization Agreement (Sunrise IUA) (Australia-Timor-Leste 2003). Timorese dissatisfaction with this revenue split from the Greater Sunrise fields led to non-ratification of the Sunrise IUA by Timor-Leste which, in turn, led to further negotiations in order to break the impasse (Schofield 2007: 198). This was apparently achieved through the Treaty on Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea (CMATS) which was signed on 12 January 2006 and came into force on 23 February 2007 (Australia-Timor-Leste 2006) (see Map 21.4). CMATS provided for the equal sharing of revenues deriving from the development of the Greater Sunrise complex of fields, as opposed to the 18.1% share that it would have gained under the terms of the TST and Sunrise IUA (Australia-Timor-Leste 2006 Article 5). CMATS also called for the deferral of each state’s claims to maritime jurisdiction and boundaries in the Timor Sea for up to 50 years or ‘until the date five years after the exploitation’ of the area covered by the treaty ceases, ‘whichever occurs earlier’ (Australia-Timor-Leste 2006 Article 12). It included robust without prejudice clauses designed to ensure that the jurisdictional claims of the parties and ultimately 291

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

Map 21.4  Joint Petroleum Development Area ( JPDA) Source: Andi Arsana and Clive Schofield.

the question of maritime boundary delimitation in the Timor Sea remain unaffected by the terms of the accord. In announcing the ratification of CMATS and the Sunrise IUA, the Australian Foreign Minister stated that the petroleum resources of the JPDA ‘may be worth as much as USD 15 billion’ to Timor-Leste (Australia, Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade 2006). That said, any revenues to be shared between Australia and Timor-Leste were contingent upon the commercial decision to develop Sunrise, something that ultimately did not occur under CMATS. 292

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

Maritime delimitation between Timor-Leste and Australia To the south, Timor-Leste’s maritime spaces are to an extent influenced by existing maritime boundaries agreed between Australia and Indonesia, in that these agreements establish the dimensions of the so-called ‘Timor Gap’. Timor-Leste is, however, not party to these agreements and is therefore not bound by them. Consequently, Timor-Leste has consistently argued in favour of a ‘widening’ of the Timor Gap, asserting that it is entitled to maritime spaces to the east and west of the discontinuity between the existing Australia-Indonesia continental shelf boundaries and subsequent joint zone arrangements, such as the JPDA established through the TST (see Map 21.4). The latter arrangement, together with those instituted under the CMATS treaty, failed to meet Timor-Leste’s strong desire for a permanent maritime boundary with Australia in the Timor Sea. Moreover, the processes leading to CMATS have been tainted by allegations of Australia spying on the Timorese negotiating team (Mitchell and Akande 2014). Australia’s long-standing preference for cooperative mechanisms with Timor-Leste in the Timor Sea, rather than delimitation of a definitive maritime boundary, in large part stems from a profound desire not to disturb its existing maritime boundary arrangements with Indonesia. In essence, if Australia were to agree to an equidistance line-based maritime boundary with Timor-Leste, there are concerns that this would somehow have a knock-on effect, especially in relation to the Australia-Indonesia continental shelf boundaries concluded in 1972 which are, as noted above, significantly closer to ­ ustralia’s. In legal terms, it would seem highly unlikely that such ­Indonesia’s coast than A an ­Australian-Timor-Leste accord would jeopardise the earlier Australia-Indonesia agreements, as boundary treaties, once concluded, are final and binding. Consequently, they are not subject to change, save through agreement from all parties concerned. Nevertheless, then Foreign Minister Alexander Downer’s vivid comment, around the time of the negotiation towards the CMATS agreement, that Australia has no wish to ‘unscramble the omelette’ of all its previously agreed boundaries with neighbouring states seems indicative of Australian geopolitical sensitivities (Downer 2004). Through a UN Compulsory Conciliation (UNCC) process, significant progress on both the delimitation of a permanent maritime boundary and potential resource-sharing arrangements between Australia and Timor-Leste has now been achieved. Conciliation proceedings were initiated by Timor-Leste on 11 April 2016 through a Notification Instituting Conciliation pursuant to Article 298 and Section 2 of Annex V of LOSC with the objective of achieving the delimitation of a permanent maritime boundary between Australia and Timor-Leste (PCA 2016a). These proceedings, which arise from the fact that both Australia and Timor-Leste are parties to LOSC, are the first time the UNCC process under LOSC has been initiated. Australia initially challenged the competence of the Conciliation Commission. In particular, Australia argued that CMATS precluded its parties from using the dispute resolution mechanisms of the LOSC. However, these objections were dismissed by the Commission in September 2016, leading to the Commission concluding that it had competence (PCA 2016b). Since then, the conciliation process, which provided only non-binding outcomes previously, had proceeded in good faith. The positive engagement of the parties in the process was a critical factor in the success of the conciliation process that could previously only facilitate negotiations and provide non-binding recommendations. The UNCC process duly led to two significant initial announcements. On 9 January 2017, the foreign ministers of Timor-Leste and Australia, along with the Commission, issued a Trilateral Joint Statement on the termination of CMATS. Then, on 20 January 2017, 293

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

Timor-Leste wrote to the tribunals in the two arbitrations (before the PCA) it had initiated with Australia under the TST, in order to withdraw its claims, including the espionage case and the case involving the Bayu-Undan to Darwin gas pipeline. These arbitrations had previously been suspended by agreement of the two governments following the Commission’s meeting with the parties in October 2016. The withdrawal of these arbitrations was the last step in the integrated package of confidence-building measures agreed during the Commission’s meetings with the parties in October 2016. Following a series of confidential meetings with the Conciliation Commission, it was announced that, on 30 August 2017, Australia and Timor-Leste had reached agreement on ‘the central elements’ of maritime boundary delimitation between them, together with agreement on the establishment of a ‘Special Regime’ for the Greater Sunrise fields, providing a ‘pathway to the development of the resource’ (PCA 2017a). It was subsequently announced on 15 October 2017 that this ‘Comprehensive Package Agreement’ had been formalised and agreement reached on a ‘complete text of a draft treaty’ (PCA 2017b). Ultimately, on 6 March 2018, Australia and Timor-Leste signed a treaty establishing their maritime boundaries in the Timor Sea (Australia-Timor-Leste 2018). This agreement represents not only a significant breakthrough, resolving a key aspect of the dispute, but also an important symbolic victory for Timor-Leste, which has long sought the finalisation of its international boundaries. Indeed, boundary issues have become increasingly politicised in Timor-Leste and linked to sovereignty, identity and completion of the country’s journey towards statehood and full independence (Schofield and Strating 2018a). The boundary agreement itself has some notably innovative aspects. Whilst the delimitation of the EEZ boundary in the central part of the Timor Sea is relatively straightforward in that it broadly reflects the median line between opposite coasts (Australia-Timor-Leste 2018, Article 4), the lateral continental shelf boundary lines are more favourable to Timor-Leste (­Australia-Timor-Leste, 2018, Article 2). These boundary segments depart significantly from the limits of the JPDA that they replace. In the west mature oil and gas fields such as the ­Buffalo field fall on the Timor-Leste side of the line. Of greater potential economic significance, the eastern lateral departs significantly from equidistance in a distinct ‘dog-leg’ configuration, placing around 70% of the Greater Sunrise complex of fields on Timor-Leste’s side of the line (see Map 21.5). It is important to note, however, that the final part of the boundary line defined by the 2018 treaty which divides Greater Sunrise only effective once the seabed resources involved are depleted or Indonesia and Timor-Leste conclude a continental shelf boundary agreement, whichever event comes later (Australia-Timor-Leste 2018, Article 3(4)). Realising the potential benefits of Greater Sunrise also depends on agreement over the split in revenues between Australia and Timor-Leste and this is linked to the destination for the pipeline taking the resources to shore and, ultimately, a commercial decision by the oil companies involved to proceed with development. The Australia-Timor-Leste treaty links the revenue-sharing issue to the destination for the pipeline. The treaty establishes the Greater Sunrise Special Regime (Australia-Timor-Leste 2018, Article 7 and Annex B). Under the Greater Sunrise Special Regime, two ‘development concepts’ are provided for under the treaty. Should the pipeline go to Australia, Timor-Leste would receive 80% of the government revenues arising from the development. Alternatively, if the pipeline is directed to Timor-Leste, 70% of such revenues would go to Timor-Leste (Australia-Timor-Leste 2018, Annex B, Article 2). This adjustment in the revenue-sharing split is designed to recognise that the downstream processing benefits would be associated with the pipeline coming on shore in either country. 294

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

Map 21.5  M  aritime boundary delimitation in the Timor Sea Source: Andi Arsana and Clive Schofield.

Whilst Timor-Leste has long sought the construction of any pipeline from Greater S­ unrise to Timor-Leste in order to deliver development opportunities and jobs domestically, this position does not appear to align with oil company desires and commercial realities. Constructing a pipeline to Timor-Leste would require it to traverse the Timor Trough which would necessarily be technically challenging as well as expensive. There would also be commercial risks associated with building new processing facilities in a developing country such as Timor-Leste. Further, there are indications that the pipeline to Australia is the only option that makes commercial sense as this could use existing pipeline as well as processing infrastructure. In contrast, the Timor-Leste pipeline and processing option has been estimated to require a subsidy from Timor-Leste of the order of US$5.6 billion (Evans 2018; PCA 2018, Annex 27). It remains to be seen whether the ‘extra’ 10% offered by the pipeline being laid to Australia rather than Timor-Leste, worth an estimated US$3.1–3.5 billion, is enough to overcome Timorese resistance on this politicised issue (Schofield and Strating 2018b). A further, and innovative, aspect of the Australia and Timor-Leste treaty is that it provides for the possibility of future adjustment to the final segments of the lateral boundary lines, which presently link to the terminal points of the Australia-Indonesia continental shelf 1972 treaty lines which define the Timor Gap. These boundary segments are designated as ‘provisional’ ones (Australia-Timor-Leste 2018, Article 2(2) and Article 3). This anticipates that negotiations between Indonesia and Timor-Leste may yield a ‘widening’ of the Timor Gap to Timor-Leste’s advantage. However, such an adjustment would necessitate Indonesia’s agreement and would only occur once the resources of Greater Sunrise have been exploited. Indonesia’s views on this novel treaty provision remain to be SEEN.

Maritime delimitation between Timor-Leste and Indonesia At a summit meeting of the leaders of Timor-Leste and Indonesia, which took place at the end of 2015, it was announced that bilateral negotiations towards maritime boundary delimitation would 295

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

be initiated. This represented a change of policy since previously Indonesia had insisted that such negotiations could only occur after land boundary issues were finalised which is yet to occur (see above). In keeping with their geographical relationship, Indonesia and Timor-Leste need to delimit maritime boundaries in three different locations: Ombai Strait, Wetar Strait and the Timor Sea (see Map 21.1). There are a number of issues which suggest that these discussions will be challenging. In particular, Indonesia’s definition of revised baselines, as defined under its 1996 archipelagic baselines legislation (Indonesia 1996) and through 2002 regulations (Indonesia 2002), connects Alor Island to the northern terminus of the mainland border between Indonesian West Timor and the main territory of Timor-Leste on the northern coast of Timor. These baselines are problematic from a Timor-Leste perspective. In particular, this is because the smaller part of Timor-Leste’s land territory, Oecussi, is located within Indonesia’s revised archipelagic baselines and is thus ‘trapped’ within Indonesia’s archipelagic waters (Schofield and Arsana 2009: 5) (see Map 21.3). Without a revision in Indonesia’s archipelagic baselines, therefore, Oecussi’s maritime zones would not only be separated from those generated from Timor-Leste ‘proper’ to the east, but archipelagic waters under Indonesian sovereignty would also need to be traversed to connect the two parts of Timor-Leste. Whilst it can be anticipated that Indonesia, having deposited its lists of coordinates and charts illustrating its archipelagic baselines with the UN Division of Ocean Affairs and the Law of the Sea in 2009, would be reluctant to revise its baselines once again, the separation of its maritime spaces from one another by Indonesian archipelagic waters is highly likely to be viewed as problematic by Timor-Leste. On this point, Timor-Leste appears to have good grounds under the international law of the sea, as Indonesia’s archipelagic baseline designations would seem to contravene LOSC Article 47(5), which provides that archipelagic baselines ‘shall not be applied by an archipelagic State in such a manner as to cut off from the high seas or the EEZ the territorial sea of another State’. Whilst this is likely to prove a point of discussion in negotiations, it is not inconceivable that the parties will find a creative way to reconcile their interests, for instance through setting up a special passage regime, allowing TimorLeste unfettered navigation rights between distinct Timorese maritime zones, through Indonesian archipelagic waters. Such an arrangement would be analogous to arrangements between Indonesia and Malaysia, whereby navigational and overflight corridors are provided through Indonesian archipelagic waters for Malaysian shipping and aircraft passing between peninsula Malaysia and the Malaysian parts of Borneo (Indonesia-Malaysia 1992; Tsamenyi et al. 2009). Maritime delimitation between Indonesia and Timor-Leste in the Ombai Strait will be both adjacent and opposite in character. Two lateral boundary lines between adjacent coasts, to the west and east, will need to be delimited from the terminal points of the land boundaries between Oecussi and East Nusa Tenggara. A further delimitation line connecting the aforementioned two lines will also need to be drawn between the opposite coastlines of Oecussi and the southern-facing coastline of Indonesia’s Alor. The relevant factor that may contribute to the location of such a line, in this context, is the relevant coastal length on each side. Indonesia might argue that it has a longer relevant coast on the Alor side than it has on the Oecussi side, so the median line in between may need to shift southwards to the advantage of Indonesia. One further factor to consider in the Ombai Strait is the existence of Batek Island, belonging to Indonesia. It is ‘inconveniently’ located somewhere very close to the western lateral boundary line. It is situated within the territorial sea measured from the north coast of Timor, so it will eventually contribute to the generation of a boundary line between Indonesia’s East 296

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

Nusa Tenggara and Timor-Leste. Consequently, the shape of the western lateral boundary line is placed in such a way to give space of territorial sea to Batek (see Map 21.3). In the Wetar Strait, Indonesia’s revised archipelagic baseline segment between Lirang Island and Alor passes very close to Timor-Leste’s Atauro Island. This is likely to make the delimitation of a maritime boundary more complicated. One of the questions that is likely to arise is whether or not Indonesia should utilise and give full effect to its archipelagic baselines in drawing maritime boundary lines in the area. As an archipelagic state, Indonesia will undoubtedly propose for the use of archipelagic baselines whilst Timor-Leste might feel that the use of such baselines is to Indonesia’s advantage and that Indonesia’s baseline designations to an extent cut off Timor-Leste’s maritime entitlements generated from Atauro. Concerning maritime delimitation to the south of Timor, Timor-Leste’s negotiating position with respect to Australia is that it deserves a wider ‘window’ on the Timor Sea, that is, a widening of the Timor Gap defined by pre-Timorese independence continental shelf agreements between Australia and Indonesia. Indeed, the Australia-Timor-Leste maritime boundary agreement of April 2018 anticipates changes to this effect (see above). It is as yet unclear what stance Timor-Leste will adopt in its negotiations with Indonesia in this area. However, it can be anticipated that Indonesia is unlikely to be readily persuaded that for the lateral boundaries in question, between Indonesia’s Leti Island and islands further east and the eastern end of Timor-Leste proceeding south of the southern terminus of the two state’s land boundary to the west, should depart from equidistance in order to allow Timor-Leste’s desired widening of its frontage on the Timor Sea to occur. A further likely complicating factor in maritime delimitation negotiations between ­Indonesia and Timor-Leste relates to the impacts of the 2018 agreement between Australia and ­Timor-Leste on the lateral boundaries between them in the Timor Sea. As noted above, the lateral continental shelf boundary lines delimited between Australia and Timor-Leste depart significantly from the lateral limits of the JPDA, in favour of Timor-Leste. As a consequence of the 1972 ­continental shelf boundary agreement between Australia and Indonesia ­(Australia-­Indonesia 1972), it is ­entirely up to Australia and Timor-Leste to dispose of the continental shelf between them and Indonesia’s rights are not prejudiced. The change in location of these lateral continental shelf boundaries in favour of Timor-Leste does, however, create an intriguing scenario in terms of maritime jurisdictional arrangements which may provoke further dispute. Previously, it was understood that Indonesia had jurisdiction over the water column between the aforementioned 1972 continental shelf boundary line and that delimited for the EEZ in 1997 (Australia-Indonesia 1997). The shift in the lateral continental shelf boundaries through the 2018 agreement between Australia and Timor-Leste means that areas that had been subject to Australian sovereign rights over the continental shelf and Indonesian sovereign rights over the water column are now under Timor-Leste’s jurisdiction as far as the continental shelf is concerned (see Map 21.5). Whilst no agreement yet exists between ­Indonesia and Timor-Leste regarding their adjacent maritime boundaries in the Timor Sea, it can be anticipated that Indonesia will maintain its claims to the water column which it has had jurisdiction over in accordance with previous agreements. In contrast, it is likely that ­Timor-Leste will push for a single maritime boundary for both continental shelf and water column, consistent with the lateral delimitation lines agreed with Australia in 2018. Delimiting lateral maritime boundaries between Indonesia and Timor-Leste, involving as it does potential alterations in the location of Australia-Indonesia-Timor-Leste tripoints and thus the scope of the Timor Gap coupled with potentially contentious discussions on ‘upgrading’ recently agreed continental shelf boundaries to single maritime boundaries, is therefore likely to be a complex challenge in negotiations between Indonesia and Timor-Leste. 297

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana

Conclusion and prospects As noted at the outset of this chapter, Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries are as yet incomplete. Significant recent advances have, however, been achieved. Although progress towards the finalisation of the relatively short sections of the land boundaries between Indonesia and Timor-Leste has been slow, the vast majority of Timor-Leste’s terrestrial international boundaries have been delimited and demarcated, and the areas in dispute between the two states are limited in scope. Indonesia and Timor-Leste have also started the process of negotiating towards the delimitation of maritime boundaries. Whilst this is certainly a positive step, there are reasons to suspect that these discussions may not yield swift agreement. In particular, this is because of the configuration of Indonesia’s revised archipelagic baselines which have a ‘cut-off’ effect on Timor-Leste, especially with respect to its territory of Oecussi which is located behind, on the Indonesian side, of an Indonesian baseline. Additionally, East Timorese claims to a broader maritime ‘window’ onto the Timor Sea may be a problematic issue in these negotiations. The most exciting recent development in relation to the finalisation of Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries is undoubtedly the breakthrough that has been achieved between Australia and Timor-Leste with respect to the Timor Sea. The agreement on permanent maritime boundaries between Australia and Timor-Leste undoubtedly marks great progress in the settlement of Timor Sea disputes with the potential to eliminate the principal source of contention in Australia and Timor-Leste’s bilateral relationship. However, the boundary treaty provides for two distinct resource-sharing options, contingent on a determination of whether the pipeline from Greater Sunrise is destined for Australia or Timor-Leste. This reflects the lucrative economic and job creation opportunities that would flow from downstream industrial developments on shore. On this crucial issue, agreement between Timor-Leste and the Joint Venture Partners has yet to be achieved. This, to an extent, exposes the limitations of conciliation as a dispute settlement mechanism. The primary aim of conciliation process, agreement on maritime delimitation, was realised. However, during the proceedings, the parties asked the Commission to extend its mandate to include facilitation of an agreement on the development concept for the Greater Sunrise. In this context, the Commission interpreted its role as being to prove the parties with a neutral assessment of the development options to enable them to make an informed decision rather than recommending a particular development concept (PCA 2018: 84–89). It is difficult to overstate how important this issue is for Timor-Leste’s economic and developmental future. More than 80% of Timor-Leste’s national budget comes from oil revenues from fields that will be depleted in less than 5 years, and the government will exhaust Timor-Leste’s sovereign wealth fund within a decade at its present rate of expenditure (­Schofield and Strating 2018b). Securing the timely development of Greater S­ unrise could therefore mean the difference between a future featuring robust development for ­Timor-Leste or one of decline, potentially towards that of becoming a failing state. Whilst this issue, vitally important to Timor-Leste’s future as it is, is a major concern since it has the potential to cause further disputes and delays in the development of Greater Sunrise, it is clear that significant progress has been achieved. Whilst Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries have yet to fully settled, it is clear that Timor-Leste is firmly on the path to realising this goal. Achieving this aim is not to suggest that all border issues will be resolved through the settlement of Timor-Leste’s land and maritime boundaries. Rather, agreement on the position of the land boundary and its definition on the ground would be 298

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries

an important step towards enhancing border management, as well as helping to facilitate cross-border cooperation. Thus, rather than being the end of the story, settlement regarding the location of Timor-Leste’s international boundaries, is really the beginning with these international boundaries will provide the essential framework for transboundary management. For example, completion of delimitation and demarcation of Timor-Leste’s land boundaries with Indonesia will be an important component in the development of a border regime that provides for the management of people, economic activities and resources that cross or straddle the boundary lines. For such border management to be successful, cross-border cooperation will inevitably be required. Similarly, in offshore spaces, the effective management of an inevitably fluid marine environment and its resources will require cooperation across international maritime boundaries once they are settled. Progress towards the settlement of Timor-Leste’s international limits and boundaries is to be welcomed since this would mean fulfilment of what has been regarded as an important component of the country’s sovereignty, statehood and independence. Moreover, the delimitation of Timor-Leste’s international boundaries provides a clear framework for relations with neighbouring states and the development of transboundary cooperation and management across boundaries, both on land and at sea, with significant implications for political stability, security, economic development, resource access and environmental stewardship. Finally, the Australia-Timor-Leste agreement of 6 March 2018 was the result of the first compulsory conciliation under the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea. The success of this UNCC process in delivering an agreement on maritime boundary delimitation therefore arguably offers a fresh potential pathway towards dispute resolution that could be applied to contentious maritime boundary issues elsewhere. That said, the fact that, at the time of writing, the parties have been unable to reach agreement on the crucial issue of the development concept for Greater Sunrise despite the input of the Conciliation Commission suggests that this ‘new’ mode of dispute resolution has its limitations. Ultimately, the Conciliation Commission could only offer non-binding suggestions and the process remains one of negotiation, albeit facilitated through conciliation. Resolution of this issue is crucial to the future development of Timor-Leste, and it is to be hoped that it is finalised with alacrity.

References Australia, Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (2006) ‘Entry into Force of Greater Sunrise Treaties with East Timor’, Alexander Downer, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Australia, media release, 23 February 2007. See, www.foreignminister.gov.au/releases/2007 Australia-East Timor (2002) Memorandum of Understanding between the Government of the Democratic Republic of East Timor and the Government of Australia concerning an International Unitization Agreement for the Greater Sunrise field, Dili, 20 May 2002, available at, www.un.org/Depts/los/ LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/TREATIES/AUS-TLS2002SUN.PDF, accessed 1 November 2017. Australia-Indonesia (1972) Agreement between the Government of the Commonwealth of Australia and the Government of the Republic of Indonesia Establishing Certain Seabed Boundaries in the Area of the Timor and Arafura Seas, Supplementary to the Agreement of 18 May 1971, signed 9 October 1972, available at, www.un.org/Depts/los/LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/TREATIES/AUS-­ IDN1972TA.pdf, accessed 1 November 2017. Australia-Indonesia (1981) Memorandum of Understanding between the Government of the Republic of I­ ndonesia and the Government of Australia Concerning the Implementation of a Provisional Fisheries Surveillance and Enforcement Arrangement, 29 October 1981, in International Maritime Boundaries, Charney, ­Jonathan I. and Alexander, Lewis M. (eds.) (1993), Vol. II, Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff: 1238–1243.

299

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana Australia-Indonesia (1989) Treaty between Australia and the Republic of Indonesia on the Zone of Cooperation in an Area between the Indonesian Province of East Timor and Northern Australia, 11 December 1989, in International Maritime Boundaries, Charney, Jonathan I. and Alexander, Lewis M. (eds.) (1993), Vol. II, Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff: 1256–1328. Australia-Indonesia (1997) Treaty between the Government of Australia and the Government of Indonesia Establishing an Exclusive Economic Zone Boundary and Certain Seabed Boundaries, 14 March 1997, available at, www.un.org/Depts/los/LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/TREATIES/ AUS-IDN1997EEZ.pdf, accessed 1 November 2017. Australia-Timor-Leste (2002a) Exchange of Notes Constituting an Agreement between the Government of Australia and the Government of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste concerning Arrangements for Exploration and Exploitation of Petroleum in an Area of the Timor Sea between Australia and East Timor, Dili, 20 May 2002, available at, www.un.org/Depts/los/LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/ TREATIES/AUS-TLS2002EX.PDF, accessed 1 November 2017. Australia-Timor-Leste (2002b) Timor Sea Treaty, Dili, 20 May 2002, available at, www.un.org/ Depts/los/LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/TREATIES/AUS-TLS2002TST. PDF, accessed 1 November 2017. Australia-Timor-Leste (2003) Agreement between the Government of Australia and the Government of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste Relating to the Unitization of the Sunrise and Troubadour Fields, Dili, 6 March 2003, available at, www.un.org/Depts/los/LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/ TREATIES/AUS-TLS2003UNI.PDF, accessed 1 November 2017. Australia-Timor-Leste (2006) Treaty on Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea, 12 January 2006 (in force 23 February 2007), available at, www.austlii.edu.au/au/other/dfat/treaties/2007/12.html Australia-Timor-Leste (2018) Treaty between Australia and the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste Establishing their Maritime Boundaries in the Timor Sea, 6 March 2018, available at, http://dfat.gov.au/geo/ timor-leste/Documents/treaty-maritime-arrangements-australia-timor-leste.pdf Bernard, L. and Schofield C.H. (2017) ‘Separate Lines: Challenges and Opportunities of Differentiated Seabed and Water Column Boundaries’, In International Marine Economy: Law and Policy, Nordquist, M.H. and Moore, J.N. (eds), Leiden/Boston: Martinus Nijhoff: 282–321. BIG (2017) Roles of Geospatial Information in the Development of Indonesia [in Bahasa Indonesia], available at, www.big.go.id/assets/download/2017/Geospatial-Ebook/Ebook-47-Tahun-BIG.pdf Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) (2017) CIA World Factbook, Washington D.C.: Central Intelligence Agency, available at, www.cia.gov/library/publications/resources/the-world-factbook/geos/tt.html, accessed 1 November 2017. Downer, A. (2004) Comment Made at a Symposium on ‘Strategic Directions for Australia and the Law of the Sea’ Held at the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, Canberra, 16 November 2004. Evans, D. (2016) ‘East Timor’s Gas Dream Is Doomed, ConocoPhillips and Woodside Have Failed’, Forbes, 12 December 2016, available at, www.forbes.com/sites/damonevans/2016/12/12/east-timors-gasdream-is-doomed/#3ef07e726f43, accessed 1 November 2017. Evans, D. (2018) ‘People of East Timor Misled Over Sunrise Oil and Gas’, Forbes, 7 March 2018, available at, www.forbes.com/sites/damonevans/2018/03/07/people-of-east-timor-misled-over-sunriseoil-and-gas/#627667b37796 Herriman, M. and Tsamenyi, M. (2009) ‘The 1997 Australia-Indonesia Maritime Boundary Treaty: A Secure Legal Regime for Offshore Resource Development?’, Ocean Development and International Law, Vol. 29, No. 4: 361–396. ICJ (1985) Case Concerning the Continental Shelf (Libyan Arab Jamahiriya/Malta), Judgment of 3 June 1985, The Hague: ICJ Reports. Indonesia (1996) Act No. 6 of 8 August 1996 Regarding Indonesian Waters, available at, www.un.org/ Depts/los/LEGISLATIONANDTREATIES/PDFFILES/IDN_1996_Act.pdf Indonesia (2002) Peraturan Pemerintah [Government Regulation] No. 38 of June 2002, available at, www.dtic.mil/whs/directives/corres/20051m_062305/ indonesia.doc, accessed 11 June 2009. Indonesia-Malaysia (1982) Treaty between Malaysia and the Republic of Indonesia Relating to the Legal Regime of Archipelagic State and the Rights of Malaysia in the Territorial Sea and Archipelagic Waters as Well as in the Airspace above the Territorial Sea, Archipelagic Waters and the Territory of the Republic of Indonesia Lying between East and West Malaysia, signed 25 February 1982, entered into force 25 May 1984. Full text available at, United Nations, Office for Ocean Affairs and the Law of the Sea, The Law of the Sea: Practice of Archipelagic States, New York: United Nations, 1992: 144–155.

300

Timor-Leste’s limits and boundaries International Court of Justice (ICJ) (1969) North Sea Continental Shelf (Federal Republic of Germany/ Denmark; Federal Republic of Germany/Netherlands) (1967–1969), Judgment of 20 February 1969, The Hague: ICJ Reports. Kaye, S.B. (2003) ‘East Timor and Maritime Boundary Delimitations’. In Protecting Maritime Resources: Boundary Delimitation, Resource Conflicts and Constabulary Responsibilities, Heath, R. and Snushall, B. (eds), Canberra: Sea Power Centre Australia: 51–59. Mitchell, K. and Akande, D. (2014) Espionage and Good Faith in Treaty Negotiations: East Timor v Australia’, EJIL: Talk! 201 January 2014, available at, www.ejiltalk.org/espionage-fraud-good-faith-intreaty-negotiations-east-timor-v-australia-in-the-permanent-court-of-arbitration/ Montevideo Convention on the Rights and Duties of States, opened for signature 26 December 1933, 165 League of Nations Treaty Series (LNTS) 19, entered into force 26 December 1934 Permanent Court of Arbitration (PCA) (2016a) Conciliation between The Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste and The Commonwealth of Australia, Press Release No.1, 29 July 2016, available at, www.pca-cpa.org, accessed 29 July 2016. PCA (2016b) Conciliation between The Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste and The Commonwealth of Australia, Decision on Competence, 19 September 2016, available at, www.pca-cpa.org, accessed 19 September 2016. PCA (2017a) Conciliation between The Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste and The Commonwealth of Australia, Press Release No.9, 1 September 2017, available at, www.pca-cpa.org, accessed 4 September 2017. PCA (2017b) Conciliation between The Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste and The Commonwealth of Australia, Press Release No.10, 15 October 2017, available at, www.pca-cpa.org, accessed 19 October 2017. PCA (2018) In the Matter of the Maritime Boundary between Timor-Leste and Australia before a Conciliation Commission constituted under Annex V of the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea; between the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste and the Commonwealth of Australia, ‘Report and Recommendations of the Compulsory Conciliation Commission between Timor-Leste and Australia on the Timor Sea’, PCA Case No.2016-10, 9 May 2018, available at, www.pca-cpa.org, accessed 12 June 2018. Polhukam (2017) ‘Having a Meeting with Xanana Gusmao, the Coordinating Minister of Politics, Law and Security Discusses Indonesia-Timor-Leste Border Dispute’ [Bertemu Xanana Gusmao, Menko Polhukam Bahas Sengketa Perbatasan Indonesia-Timor Leste], available at, https://polkam.go.id/ bertemu-xanana-gusmao-menko-polhukam-bahas-sengketa-perbatasan-indonesia-timor-leste/, accessed 20 September 2017. Schofield, C.H. (2007) ‘Minding the Gap: The Australia – East Timor Treaty on Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea’, International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law, Vol. 22, No. 2: 189–234. Schofield, C.H. and Arsana, I.M.A. (2009) ‘Closing the Loop: Indonesia’s Revised Archipelagic Baselines System’, Commentary, Australian Journal of Marine and Ocean Affairs, Vol. 1, No. 2: 57–62. Schofield, C.H. and Strating, R. (2018a), Timor Sea: A Boundary, Yet disputes Linger’, Lowy Interpreter, 7 April 2018, available at, www.lowyinstitute.org/the-interpreter/timor-gap-boundaryyet-disputes-linger Schofield, C.H. and Strating, R. (2018b) ‘Sun setting on Timor-Leste’s Greater Sunrise plan’, East Asia Forum, 30 March 2018, available at, www.eastasiaforum.org/2018/03/30/sun-setting-on-timorlestes-greater-sunrise-plan/ Strating, R. (2017a) ‘Law of the Sea: Settling the Australia and Timor-Leste Dispute, Australian Outlook, Australian Institute for International Affairs (AIIA), 13 September 2017, available at, www. internationalaffairs.org.au/australianoutlook/law-sea-settling-aus-timor-dispute/ Strating, R. (2017b) ‘What You Need to Know about Timor-Leste and Australia’s Sea Border Fight’, The Conversation, 31 October 2017, available at, https://theconversation.com/what-you-need-toknow-about-timor-leste-and-australias-sea-border-fight-67377, accessed 1 November 2017. Timor-Leste (2002) Maritime Borders of the Territory of the Democratic Republic of ­Timor-Leste, Law No.7/2002, 23 July 2002, available at, www.un.org/Depts/los/LEGISLATIONAND TREATIES/PDFFILES/TLS_2002_Law.pdf, accessed 1 November 2017. Tsamenyi, M.B., Schofield, C.H. and Milligan, B. (2009) ‘Navigation through Archipelagos: Current State Practice’. In Freedom of the Seas, Passage Rights and the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention, Nordquist, M.H., Koh, T.B. and Moore, J.N. (eds), Leiden/Boston: Martinus Nijhoff: 413–454.

301

Clive Schofield and I Made Andi Arsana United Nations (1982) United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (LOSC), adopted 10 December 1982, 1833 United Nations Treaty Series (UNTS) 3, entered into force 16 November 1994. United Nations (2002) ‘East Timor – UNTAET Background’, available at, www.un.org/en/peace keeping/missions/past/etimor/UntaetB.htm, accessed 11 August 2017. United Nations (2018) Status of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, of the Agreement Relating to the Implementation of Part XI of the Convention and of the Agreement for the Implementation of the Provisions of the Convention Relating to the Conservation and Management of Straddling Fish Stocks and Highly Migratory Fish Stocks, as at 31 March 2018, available at, www.un.org/depts/los/reference_ files/status2018.pdf, accessed 5 April 2018.

302

22 Timor-Leste and ASEAN From enmity to amity, exclusion to semi-inclusion Maria Ortuoste

Timor-Leste is the only Southeast Asian country that is not a member of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN). Why? The most prosaic reasons are that Timor-Leste lacks capabilities to implement ASEAN commitments, the organisation’s focus on realising an ASEAN community, the opaqueness of ASEAN’s bureaucratic rules and the tyranny of consensus decision-making. These are not wrong, and, in fact, this chapter shows how these factors unfold from 1974 to the current period. A deeper reason for Timor-Leste’s semi-inclusion is how ASEAN has constructed the image of the new state – a construction and labelling that has ranged from communist threat (1974–1998) to failing state (1999–2011) to not-quite-ready partner (2012–present). These labels served to first isolate and then semi-include Timor-Leste, as well as to fulfil ASEAN’s goals – establishing itself as a regional actor (1974–1988), reconstituting its credibility after multiple crises (1999–2011) and creating an ASEAN Community (2012–present). This ­chapter discusses the evolution of Timor-Leste and ASEAN relations in terms of the changing labels and agenda of the two parties. It also examines how the political and economic compromises being made by Timor-Leste to become an ASEAN member are risking the democratic and pro-human rights ideals that legitimised Timor-Leste’s independence struggle and statehood.

Creating enmity: 1974–1998 The Suharto government presented East Timor as a proximate communist threat in the 1970s even though Fretilin’s Central Committee recognised ‘…ASEAN [as] a factor of stability and a driving force of regional cooperation” [and that] East Timor would greatly benefit from integration into ASEAN after independence.’1 The same committee was willing to work with Indonesia on joint border patrols and with ASEAN on a fact-finding mission to investigate the violence that erupted at that time. East Timor’s leaders probably expected that ASEAN would be sympathetic to their cause, being former colonies themselves and because ­Fretilin’s core principles of non-alignment, non-interference and international cooperation were strikingly similar to ASEAN’s own principles.2 Then Indonesian Foreign Minister Ali Alatas even personally assured Ramos-Horta that Indonesia had no plans to annex East Timor. Yet two weeks after Fretilin’s formal declaration of independence, Indonesian forces 303

Maria Ortuoste

invaded East Timor and occupied it for the next 24 years. ASEAN members supported ­Indonesia partly in the name of ASEAN cohesion. They voted against UN resolutions condemning the invasion and affirming East Timor’s right of self-determination, and they prevented the inclusion of East Timor in the agenda of the General Assembly’s Special Political and Decolonization Committee.3 ASEAN members also argued in UN sessions that East Timor was effectively integrated into Indonesia which was providing adequate assistance to the Timorese.4 ASEAN, therefore, not only hindered East Timor’s efforts to become an independent state but also legitimised Indonesia’s invasion, thereby plunging the East Timor question into obscurity. That narrative was challenged by Timorese resistance leaders – Xanana Gusmão, Bishop Carlos Belo and José Ramos-Horta – and by Timorese students in Indonesia. Their public statements about the human rights violations by the Indonesian government, coupled with news of the 1991 Dili Massacre, helped increase support for the independence movement. Several action networks composed of non-governmental organisations (NGOs), governments, activists and prominent individuals kept the East Timor issue in the limelight in the 1990s. That East Timor was accepted as an independent political actor is seen in the European Parliament’s hosting of the National Council for Maubere Resistance (CNRM) in 1992 when they presented a three-phase peace plan to transition from Indonesian occupation to eventual independence under UN auspices. This legitimacy was buttressed by two additional events: the statement by the International Court of Justice on the case between Portugal and Australia (1995) which recognised East Timor’s right of self-determination, and the awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize to Belo and Ramos-Horta in 1996. ASEAN members were able to withstand international criticisms in the early 1990s as their remarkable economic growth and political stability translated into diplomatic influence vis-à-vis their extra-regional partners. But the 1998 Asian financial crisis exposed the deficiencies of the organisation and their need for external support. This crisis also led to the downfall of the Suharto regime and his successor, B.J. Habibie’s announcement that ­Indonesia was willing to hold a referendum on the independence of East Timor. In 1999, the Timorese voted for independence.

Building amity amidst fragility: 1999–2011 During the years 1999–2011, not only was Timor-Leste rebuilding its government, institutions and infrastructure which were all but decimated by the post-referendum violence, but it was also set on joining international organisations as an independent state. ASEAN, on the other hand, was committed to reinventing itself after the multiple crises – economic, environmental and political – of the late 1990s and its inability to effectively integrate Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam and Myanmar. In effect, Timor-Leste was turning outward whilst ASEAN was turning inward.

Issues of capability ASEAN and Timor-Leste agree that the main challenge to admission is the latter’s lack of diplomatic, institutional and financial capabilities to fulfil its organisational obligations. Joao Camara, director of multilateral and regional affairs of Timor-Leste’s foreign ministry, acknowledged that they need to improve their human resources as well as to establish embassies in all ten ASEAN countries (Ravichandran 2006). Whilst Timor-Leste was optimistic that it could build up these capabilities quickly, ASEAN members were less sanguine. 304

Timor-Leste and ASEAN

Singapore Foreign Minister S. Jayakumar advised Gusmão and Ramos-Horta to concentrate on ‘reconstruction and nation building’ rather than on ASEAN membership ( Jayakumar 2000). In 2002, Timor-Leste became a UN member, but ASEAN was more circumspect – they were only ‘prepared to engage East Timor in the long-term’ without encouraging membership (ASEAN 2002). But what exactly were ASEAN’s expectations of a prospective member? ASEAN at that time did not have a formal list of requirements, but statements by ASEAN members indicated that Timor-Leste should have operational capabilities – a large cadre of diplomats and ministers to attend hundreds of annual meetings, for example – and substantive capabilities, specifically sound domestic political and economic institutions that could implement various ASEAN agreements. Operational capabilities could be improved through various short-term training programmes, whilst substantive capabilities would take longer to develop and depended, in large part, on Timor-Leste’s political stability. This early period of independence was rocky  – ­factional violence erupted in 2006 and Ramos-Horta was gravely wounded in an assassination attempt. According to the Asian Development Bank (ADB), the violence occurred because the government failed ‘to meet high post-independence expectations, particularly for veterans of the independence struggle, high rates of poverty and poor service delivery and frustration, and perceived favouritism in the distribution of sought-after posts’ (IRIN 2014). This was an internal debate that no amount of external assistance could remedy. Moreover, many Timorese did not have enough experience in governance as only a few had held local government positions, and almost none had diplomatic positions, during ­Indonesia’s occupation. In this context, ASEAN offered minimal inclusion to Timor-Leste. Kitti Wasinondh, spokesman for the Thai foreign ministry, said that Timor-Leste could take part in ‘non-sensitive activities like economic programmes’ and that its entry will have to be ‘step by step’ (ASEAN 2006; Rajoo 2006). An ASEAN Secretariat Discussion Paper clarified that the participation of East Timor in certain activities in ASEAN ‘will not create any special right for Timor Leste in ASEAN, nor will it oblige ASEAN to consider favourably the future application of Timor Leste for either the observer status or membership in ASEAN. (Kyodo News International 2006) The discussion paper also said that Timor-Leste’s low participation rate (36%) in the ASEAN Regional Forum (ARF) is proof that the new country could not yet fulfil its obligations. Nevertheless, ASEAN still encouraged Timor-Leste to accede to the Treaty of Amity and Cooperation (TAC) which it did in 2007.

ASEAN: reinvention and consensus The image of Timor-Leste as a ‘fragile’, if not ‘failing’, state helped in denying its admission into the organisation which was then struggling to regain international credibility and was unsure if the members could reach consensus on re-expanding the association. ASEAN members believed that including the new state in the organisation would distract them from their most ambitious task that is, building an ASEAN Community. They had to find ways to bridge the developmental gap between old and new members and to identify norms and principles acceptable to democracies and non-democracies. Countless negotiations ensued 305

Maria Ortuoste

over the ASEAN Charter, blueprints and deadlines. Many members believed that the admission of an ‘unstable’ country like Timor-Leste would derail limited time and resources from their project, with Singapore bluntly saying: ‘Timor Leste’s entry would slow down the grouping’s community-building progress’ (Chongkittavorn 2016). Nevertheless, Timor-Leste was allowed to go through pre-membership processes similar to those for Cambodia, Laos and Myanmar (CLM). They were invited as guests of the host country, became observers, filed formal applications and attained full membership. Working groups and fact-finding teams assessed the applicants’ readiness to join ASEAN. Unlike Timor-Leste, CLM were accepted quickly – Laos and Myanmar within a year of their formal application, and ­Cambodia after three years. Timor-Leste acceded to TAC in 2007 but was not inducted as a member, nor even given full observer status like Papua New Guinea. By the time of Timor-Leste’s formal application, many ASEAN members realised that the original expansion was too hasty and worried that they would have to tackle similar, if not more complex, problems in Timor-Leste. Decisions in ASEAN are reached by consensus, and there were doubts whether the members, especially Indonesia and Myanmar, could agree on Timor-Leste’s membership. ­Indonesia’s approval was pivotal, being the former occupying power and ASEAN’s unofficial leader since 1967. It was not surprising that ASEAN would follow Indonesia’s lead in Timor-Leste. The members joined peacekeeping missions as individual countries, not as an organisation, only after Indonesia consented. Southeast Asian peacekeepers were even deployed to ‘relatively safe areas’ in order to prevent any unexpected encounter between the peacekeepers and Indonesian forces (Abad 2003: 51; Smith and Dee 2006: 441). Another problem was Timor-Leste’s pro-human rights stance. Myanmar ‘flatly rejected’ the country’s membership because of Gusmão’s close relationship with Aung San Suu Kyi (Rajoo 2006). Gusmão previously stated that his government will ‘pay all attention to helping the Burmese people’ when East Timor was finally free (Rajoo 2006; Seabra 2013). In 2000, it was reported that Gusmão met secretly with the National Coalition Government of the Union of Myanmar to discuss the possibility of opening an office in Dili and, in 2004, he called on the junta to release Suu Kyi after her house arrest was extended for another year (Inbaraj 2004; Irrawaddy 2004b).

Assistance and compromises One of the first tasks of Timor-Leste was to develop its operational capabilities through the assistance of its external partners. The principal sources of development assistance are not Timor-Leste’s Southeast Asian neighbours but rather Australia, ADB, Japan and the European Union in 2013 and 2016 (Ministry of Finance 2014).5 ASEAN members provided Timorese civil servants short-term training courses on the English language, diplomacy and negotiation. In order to become familiar with ASEAN processes, they were also invited to meetings such as the Annual Ministerial Meeting (AMM), the ARF where Timor-Leste became a member in 2005, working groups such as a Counter-Terrorism Experts Conference, as well as events with civil society organisations (CSOs) such as the Third Democracy Forum in Bali in 2010. To help develop Timor-Leste’s substantive capabilities, ASEAN provided some assistance through the Initiative for ASEAN Integration (IAI) and its projects with the UN Development Programme (UNDP) or the Sasakawa Peace Foundation.6 Most of these projects were designed to develop governance capabilities in education, health, agriculture, macroeconomic management, gender and development, poverty reduction, civilian policing and civil service. For its part, Timor-Leste made ASEAN membership by 2012 its priority as stated in the government’s 2007–2012 National Development Plan. They created the position of ASEAN 306

Timor-Leste and ASEAN

advisor in the Office of the President to coordinate ASEAN-related activities, to help the country accede to ASEAN treaties, as well as to develop a Strategic Plan for ASEAN membership. Funded by the UNDP, the advisor was also responsible for organizing the ‘Accession to ASEAN Dialogue Series Meetings’ attended by ASEAN members and ASEAN Secretariat officials. By February 2009, Timor-Leste opened its ASEAN National Secretariat in Dili to formalise these preparations (Yusoff 2009), and Ramos-Horta reported that Malaysia, the Philippines and Thailand supported its ASEAN membership. The leaders of the new state also realised that they had to make compromises to obtain the support of Indonesia and Myanmar. Their policy towards Indonesia was pragmatic for several reasons – they shared a common land border and had to cooperate on cross-border security issues like militias, smuggling and human trafficking; Indonesia was Timor-Leste’s largest trading partner, accounting for more than 50% of the country’s total merchandise imports from 2004 to 2008 (World Bank 2010: 13); and there were people-to-people ties as many Timorese reside or study in Indonesia. Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s focus on improving bilateral relations complemented Timor-Leste’s pragmatism. Some joint initiatives were highly symbolic – Yudhoyono visited the Santa Cruz cemetery in 2007, and Timor-Leste officials paid their respects when President Suharto died in 2008 (Seabra 2013: 147). They also concluded formal agreements on education and human resource development, civil service improvement, oil and gas exploration, and forestry rehabilitation, amongst others. Part of this pragmatic approach was to forego seeking justice for the victims of Indonesian occupation and the post-referendum violence. Timor-Leste and Indonesia agreed to establish a Commission on Truth and Friendship (CTF) rather than an international tribunal, as recommended by the United Nations, to investigate and prosecute the perpetrators of the 1999 violence. Created in 2005, the Commission was tasked to determine the ‘conclusive truth’ about atrocities in 1999 whilst adopting a ‘forward looking and reconciliatory approach’. CTF investigations would not lead to prosecutions, and the two governments made sure that their respective sovereignties were not violated. The Timorese president was also reluctant to publicise the full report of the Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor (CAVR), an independent body created under the auspices of UN Transitional Authority in East Timor. The report, titled Chega! which means ‘no more, stop, enough’, not only detailed Indonesia’s crimes but also strongly criticised the international community – the United States, France, the United Kingdom, China, the USSR, Japan, Australia, Portugal and Vatican City – for not using their influence to prevent the occupation or to help the Timorese during the occupation. Criticisms from the political opposition as well as from CSOs, international NGOs and the United Nations did not change the stance of the Timorese government. Ramos-Horta stated that his government ‘consciously rejected the notion of pushing for an international tribunal for East Timor because (A) it is not practical, (B) it would wreck our relationship with Indonesia, and (C) we are serious about supporting Indonesia’s own transition towards democracy’ (Pereira 2009). He even went so far as to say that ‘civil society organisations in East Timor have no moral authority to criticise the president's efforts to promote reconciliation with Indonesia through the CTF’ (Kingston 2005: 5). Gusmão also stated that Timor-Leste depends on the international community, which was criticised in Chega!, and therefore ‘should not be ungrateful for what they have contributed. They are making amends for their mistakes’ (Kingston 2005: 3). Indonesia made some token gestures such as in 2000 when an Indonesian court sentenced six militia members to 20 months for their role in the 1999 violence. But skilfully skirting this very contentious issue is perhaps one reason why bilateral relations have progressed so 307

Maria Ortuoste

rapidly. By 2011, Indonesia announced its support for Timor-Leste’s intention to formally apply for ASEAN membership. Timor-Leste also had to moderate its stance on human rights and democracy to obtain Myanmar’s support. Ramos-Horta stated that whilst the junta could not ‘prevent forever the birth of democracy and freedom’, he sympathised with the difficulties the regime was facing during its democratic transition. When Western nations proposed economic sanctions against the junta, Timor-Leste opposed it along with ASEAN (Irrawaddy 2004a). Ramos-Horta attended a JICA-ASEAN Regional Cooperation Meeting in Yangon and the government provided $500,000 humanitarian aid after Cyclone Nargis hit Myanmar. A more dramatic expression of this support was the government’s recall of its ambassador to the United Nations, Nelson Santos, after he voted for a General Assembly resolution condemning Myanmar in 2009. ASEAN members either voted against or abstained from voting on that same resolution (Roughneen 2010).7 These efforts finally paid off when Myanmar’s ambassador to Timor-Leste presented his credentials to Ramos-Horta in February 2010 which, in turn, paved the way for the visit of Myanmar’s foreign minister later in August. Several groups opposed this accommodation with Myanmar. Unlike the multiparty coalition government which wanted to align its policies closer to ASEAN’s, opposition legislators believed that their government should stand up for human rights. Ramos-Horta favoured a pragmatic approach, whilst Foreign Minister Zacarias da Costa stated that his government is ‘committed to promoting democracy and human rights in Myanmar and internationally’ (Roughneen 2010). These differences also spilled onto the streets when human rights activists clashed with police during the visit of Myanmar’s foreign minister (Antara 2010). At the end of this period, it seemed that Timor-Leste would soon become an ASEAN member. It had slowly built up its capabilities and was moving steadily towards fulfilling operational requirements. The peaceful leadership transition and signs of economic growth showed that Timor-Leste could finally develop its substantive capabilities and, therefore, fulfil any formal obligations in ASEAN. It acceded to TAC and had familiarised itself with ­ASEAN’s procedures and processes for almost ten years, much longer than CLM. ­Ramos-Horta also announced that Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia and Singapore supported Timor-Leste’s membership by 2012. In 2011, Timor-Leste submitted its formal application for ASEAN membership.

2012 to the present: ASEAN-10.5 Every year since 2012, Timor-Leste has expected to become an ASEAN member; every year, those hopes are dashed. Many scholars, NGO networks, countries and organisations like ADB support Timor-Leste’s membership, but ASEAN has clearly set this matter aside as it focuses on its primary goal to build ‘One Vision, One Identity, One Community’. ­Coupled with bureaucratic vagaries, lack of consensus and no sense of urgency, ­Timor-­Leste’s membership appears to be in perpetual limbo despite its improved capacities. Timor-Leste continues its quest for membership, but domestic political opposition and CSOs are now questioning this decision as Indonesia continued to avoid accountability for past crimes ­because of the potential negative impact of economic openness on social justice and equity.

Timor-Leste’s qualifications Prospective ASEAN members, according to Article 6 of the 2007 ASEAN Charter, should meet four requirements. Timor-Leste clearly satisfies the first three – it is within the 308

Timor-Leste and ASEAN

geographic footprint of Southeast Asia, it is formally recognised by all members, and its accession to TAC is proof of its ‘agreement to be bound and to abide by the Charter’. Whether or not Timor-Leste satisfies the fourth criterion – ‘ability and willingness to carry out the obligations of the membership’ – is unknown; the phrase is so vague that current members can easily impose additional requirements. A case can be made that Timor-Leste has developed both operational and substantive capabilities. Its representatives have attended numerous international conferences such as the UN Economic and Social Council for the Asia-Pacific where it was nominated as chair; the Shangri-la Defence Dialogue where Timor-Leste’s prime minister gave a keynote address and presided over the first meeting of the Trilateral Defence Ministers of Timor-Leste, ­Indonesia and Australia; and the World Economic Forum where it shared the stage with Vietnam, Malaysia, Cambodia and Indonesia. The government also hosted various ASEAN and ARF meetings, the International Conference on the Post-2015 Development Agenda attended by 45 countries, and the ASEAN People’s Forum in 2016 when Laos was unwilling to host the CSOs. The elections in March 2017 were peaceful and the 2016 Democracy Index and Freedom in the World 2017 ranked Timor-Leste’s democracy and political freedom as the highest in Southeast Asia. The concern that Timor-Leste could be an economic burden for ASEAN could be alleviated by the fact that its economy grew by 14.7% in 2011, its sovereign wealth fund is expected to grow to $20 billion, and it is ranked higher than Laos, Cambodia and Myanmar in the 2015 UN Human Development Report. Surveys have also shown that Timorese are relatively satisfied with their government and economic situation (Asia Foundation 2014: 12; International Republican Institute 2016). All of these factors indicate that there is a modicum of political and economic stability which are the foundations for consistently upholding international commitments. Timor-Leste is also harmonizing its policies with the goals and directives of the ASEAN Community. It has demonstrated solidarity with ASEAN members by refraining from criticising their human rights records.8 The government has also said that it is willing to bring its defence forces in line with other countries in the region in order to contribute to regional peace (Gusmão 2012; Office of the President 2010). Like ASEAN, Timor-Leste has identified non-traditional security issues – transnational crime and terrorism, climate change and environmental hazards – as key threats. They also regard great power competition as problematic stating, ‘It is valuable to remember the rewards of this cohesiveness, and to resist and prevent Southeast Asia from becoming a proxy battleground for the larger regional and global powers’ (Pereira 2016).

ASEAN’s hesitation Following Timor-Leste’s formal application in 2011, Singapore asked the ASEAN ­Coordinating Council (ACC) to commission feasibility studies on the potential impact of Timor-Leste’s membership on the three pillars of the ASEAN Community. Those feasibility studies are reportedly finished, but their findings have not been publicised, and it is unclear if the results were shared with Timor-Leste’s government. Many observers expected that ASEAN, in 2016, would make a definitive announcement of Timor-Leste’s membership by 2017 especially since Indonesia’s Permanent Representative to ASEAN, Rahmat Pramono, stated that ‘ASEAN was closer to welcoming Dili’. This was the ‘first time [that] a senior ASEAN official revealed the status of ongoing discussions on ASEAN’s fourth enlargement’ (Chongkittavorn 2016). As of this chapter’s writing, no such announcement has been made. 309

Maria Ortuoste

The opaque vetting process is a significant problem. The Habibie Centre claims that ASEAN officials – both member-states and the Secretariat – have a ‘negative mindset’ about Timor-Leste’s membership (Habibie Centre 2016). Notwithstanding statements of support, members like Myanmar, Cambodia and Vietnam have voiced concerns about Timor-Leste’s capacity to meet ASEAN goals (Habibie Centre 2016: 4). Singapore Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong ‘has [even] openly questioned the attention the bloc has been paying to the half-island nation compared to other prospective entrees such as Fiji and Papua New Guinea’ (ASEAN Briefing 2013). Laos, as one of the ASEAN members reliant on external assistance, worries that Timor-Leste might siphon off limited development funds. This last concern, whilst possibly valid, is also misplaced – ASEAN is not even in the top ten of Timor-Leste’s donors. Finally, there are concerns that Timor-Leste’s membership will give Indonesia a de facto second vote in the organisation thus altering the current balance of power (Leach and Percival-Wood 2014: 77). These concerns explain why ASEAN ministerial and summit statements from 2012 to 2017 merely talk about exploring Timor-Leste’s membership, discussing the results of the ACC Working Groups’ study and always reminding Timor-Leste that it still falls short of having the necessary capacities to become an ASEAN member.

Domestic scepticism and opposition Political opposition members and CSOs are also sceptical about Timor-Leste’s membership in ASEAN for two main reasons. First, how can Timor-Leste make the Indonesia government make the perpetrators of violence accountable when the former relies on Indonesia’s support for membership? Timor-Leste’s government has not been actively pressing the issue in line with its pragmatic approach, and there is not enough support to press for accountability and reparations justice within Indonesia. Indonesian Prime Minister Joko Widodo’s attempts to find accountability for human rights violations are not fully supported, thus allowing ‘the principal architects of the crimes [to] remain free in Indonesia’ where some are still in positions of power and had even campaigned for president (Gusmão 2016). Second, many analysts contend that Timor-Leste’s participation in the ASEAN Economic Community (AEC) will bring little to no benefits and may even be detrimental to a country with a small, fledgling and undiversified economy. Despite impressive growth rates, ­Timor-Leste is still largely dependent on oil revenues. La’o Hamutuk states that oil income peaked in 2012 but is now declining, and the government appears to lack a sense of urgency to diversify the economy (La’o Hamutuk 2017). There is a small non-oil sector of the economy, but it is propped up by government spending (Scheiner 2017). As such, extending national treatment to foreign investors under the AEC could hamper the development of indigenous productive capabilities due to the potential influx of cheap imports (La’o Hamutuk 2016). La’o Hamutuk also cautions that such openness could encourage rent-seeking and worsen the corruption in government. Some scholars also doubt that there will be an increase in foreign direct investments in the country because it has scarce natural resources, labour is unskilled and infrastructure is underdeveloped (Kammen 2013). Entering the AEC could also result in loss of government control over important matters such as the use of generic medicines and the possible loss of tax revenues (La’o Hamutuk 2013). In the end, the people’s welfare will be compromised much more than it is now when the government allocates only a small amount of its budget on basic needs such as health and education. Further, the government has not given enough attention to the inputs of civil society such as La’o Hamutuk which has criticised plans to accede to ASEAN (Guterres and Hooi 2017; Pinheiro 2014). 310

Timor-Leste and ASEAN

It can even be argued that Timor-Leste could have achieved all these benefits without ASEAN membership. After all, the international community did recognise the legitimacy of Timor-Leste’s right of self-determination, even though the Indonesian occupation went unopposed. The country also received international aid, even though ASEAN did not formally recognise its statehood in 1999. The country also continues to receive international assistance, which amounted to more than $230 million in 2013 (Ministry of Finance 2014). Timor-Leste would also have eventually attracted Indonesian trade and investment due to its proximity. China, one of the first countries to recognise Timor-Leste, has also been providing aid, scholarships and infrastructure to the country (Seabra 2013: 149). ­Timor-Leste is also concluding defence arrangements with the United States, Japan and China. It successfully presented its case against Australia before the Permanent Court of Arbitration, which ruled that the two parties should undertake compulsory and binding arbitration (see Schofield and Arkana, this volume). Finally, Timor-Leste’s affinity with the Community of Portuguese Language Nations (CPLP) and the Pacific Islands Forum should not be discounted. East Timorese nationalists focused on ties with Melanesia rather than Southeast Asia. The government even became the president of CPLP from 2014 to 2016 and ‘provides access to diplomatic networks and development cooperation with historically linked countries in Europe, Latin America, and Africa’ (Leach and Percival-Wood 2014: 75).

Conclusion Seventeen years have passed since Timor-Leste became independent, and it is still unclear if and when Timor-Leste will become an ASEAN member. ASEAN clings to its narrative of building an ASEAN Community and, whether or not the organisation publicly acknowledges it, Timor-Leste’s admission is a ‘distraction’ for them. The Timor-Leste government’s narrative is that it will be a positive force for ASEAN, especially in the areas of democracy, human rights and popular involvement. But ASEAN and the Timor-Leste government are not the only relevant actors in this arena. Timorese CSOs advance a societal narrative that sees ASEAN membership, or at least immediate implementation of its Community plans, as counterproductive to achieving accountability for past crimes, sustainable economic development and social justice. ASEAN does not have much to lose if Timor-Leste does not become a member; but Timor-Leste, it seems, has begun losing out in terms of the political and economic compromises it is making to become an ASEAN member. Put in another way, Timor-Leste could gain ASEAN membership, but it could lose its state and society.

Notes 1 Fretilin Press Statement, Dili, East Timor, 16 September 1975, quoted in Dunn (2003: 181–182). 2 ‘Programme of Fretilin’ reproduced in Joliffe (1978: 336). 3 The UN resolutions are as follows: General Assembly Resolution 3485 dated 12 ­December 1975; Secu­ ssembly issued rity Council resolutions 384 (1975) and 389 (1976). From 1977 to 1982, the General A resolutions titled ‘Question of Timor’: no. 31/53 (1976); no. 32/34 (1977); no. 33/39 (1978); 34/40 (1979); 35/27 (1980); 36/50 (1981) and 37/30 (1982). 4 These are based on statements by: Philippine and Malaysian representatives to the United Nations during the Security Council’s 1909th (14 April 1976) and 1911th (20 April 1976) meetings; ­Singaporean, Malaysian, Philippine and Thai representatives during the 34th session of the Fourth Committee of the General Assembly, 24–25 October 1979; Singaporean and Malaysian representatives in the 37th session of the Fourth Committee of the General Assembly, 15–24 October 1982. These proceedings are reproduced in Krieger (1997).

311

Maria Ortuoste 5 The data are from Timor-Leste’s Aid Transparency Portal (https://aidtransparency.gov.tl/portal/). 6 The purpose of IAI is to bridge the development gap between older and newer ASEAN members. Some of their projects were extended to Timor-Leste. 7 Myanmar, Brunei Darussalam, Laos, Malaysia and Vietnam voted against the resolution whilst Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia and Cambodia abstained from the vote, while the Philippine representative was absent during this session (Roughneen 2010). 8 An important is exception is former Prime Minister Ramos-Horta who, together with fellow Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus, called on Aung San Suu Kyi to help Rohingyas in Myanmar.

References Abad, M. C. J. (2003) ‘The Association of Southeast Asian Nations: Challenges and Responses’. In Regional Organizations of the Asia Pacific: Exploring Institutional Change, M. Wesley (ed.): 40–59, ­Gordonsville, VA: Palgrave Macmillan. Antara (2010, August 20) ‘Protests greet Myanmar Minister in E. Timor’. Antara, retrieved December 29, 2016, from www.antaranews.com/en/news/1282296969/protests-greet-myanmar-minister-in-e-timor ASEAN (2002, July 29) ‘Joint Communique of the 35th ASEAN Ministerial Meeting: One Vision, One Identity, One Community’. ASEAN, retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://asean.org/?static_ post=joint-communique-of-the-35th-asean-ministerial-meeting-bandar-seri-­begawan-29-30july-2002 ASEAN (2006, July 25) ‘Joint Communique of the 39th ASEAN Ministerial Meeting (AMM) Kuala Lumpur: Forging a United, Resilient and Integrated ASEAN’. ASEAN, retrieved March 18, 2017, from http://asean.org/?static_post=joint-communique-of-the-39th-asean-ministerial-meeting-amm-­ kuala-lumpur-25-july-2006-3 ASEAN Briefing (2013, November 18) ‘Slow Progress in Timor Leste’s Bid for ASEAN Membership’. ASEAN Briefing, retrieved March 26, 2017, from www.aseanbriefing.com/news/2013/11/18/ slow-progress-timor-lestes-bid-asean-membership.html Asia Foundation (2014) ‘Timor Tatoli Survey: November 2014’. Asia Foundation, retrieved from https://asiafoundation.org/resources/pdfs/TimorTatoliSurveyNov2014.pdf Chongkittavorn, K. (2016, June 15) ‘Will Timor Leste Finally Join ASEAN in 2017?’ ASEAN News, retrieved December 29, 2016, from www.aseannews.net/will-timor-leste-finally-join-asean-2017a/ Dunn, J. (2003) East Timor: A Rough Passage to Independence, New South Wales: Longueville Books. Gusmao, C. (2016, June 27) ‘Time to End Impunity for Suharto’s Crimes in Indonesia and Timor-Leste’. Common Dreams, retrieved June 28, 2017, from www.commondreams.org/views/2016/06/27/ time-end-impunity-suhartos-crimes-indonesia-and-timor-leste Gusmao, X. (2012, March) Military Operations Other than War: Regional and National Perspectives. Presented at the Second Jakarta International Defence Dialogue ( JIDD), Jakarta, Indonesia. Guterres, J. and Hooi, K. Y. (2017, March 24) ‘After Presidential Elections, What Next for TimorLeste?’ The Diplomat, retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://thediplomat.com/2017/03/afterpresidential-elections-what-next-for-timor-leste/ Habibie Center (2016) Rethinking the Process for Timor-Leste’s Application for ASEAN Membership (ASEAN Briefs No. 3, issue 4), Jakarta, Indonesia: The Habibie Center, ASEAN Studies Program. Inbaraj, S. (2004, December 3) ‘Suu Kyi’s Spirit Can Never be Killed - East Timor’s Xanana’. ETAN, retrieved March 26, 2017, from https://etan.org/et2004/december/01-03/03suu.htm International Republican Institute (2016) National Survey of Timor-Leste Public Opinion: November 7–24, 2016. Retrieved from www.iri.org/.../english_timor-leste_2016_public_opinion_poll_for_ public_release.pd. IRIN (2014, July 18) ‘Why Timor-Leste’s Stability Could be Deceptive’. IRIN News, retrieved March 30, 2017, from www.irinnews.org/report/100363/analysis-why-timor-leste%E2%80%99s-stabilitycould-be-deceptive Irrawaddy (2004a, February 22) ‘An Interview with Ramos-Horta’. The Irrawaddy, retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://peace-foundation.net.7host.com/article_detail.asp?id=62 Irrawaddy (2004b, April 8) ‘The Irrawaddy Welcomes the World’s Newest Nation’. The Irrawaddy, retrieved March 26, 2017, from www2.irrawaddy.com/article.php?art_id=14&page=1 Jayakumar, S. (2000, March) Remarks by Singaporean Foreign Minister Jayakumar in the Singaporean Parliament on Singapore-Indonesia Relations. Presented at the Parliamentary Debate, Singapore. Retrieved from www. nas.gov.sg/archivesonline/speeches/record-details/74f28bc1-115d-11e3-83d5-0050568939ad

312

Timor-Leste and ASEAN Joliffe, J. (1978) East Timor: Nationalism and Colonialism, Queensland, Australia: University of Queensland Press. Kammen, D. (2013) ‘Timor-Leste and ASEAN’. Presented at the Timor-Leste National Political Consensus: One Vision and Commitment towards ASEAN Membership, Comoro, Dili, Timor-Leste: La’o Hamutuk. La’o Hamutuk, retrieved from www.laohamutuk.org/econ/ASEAN/Kammen ASEAN23Apr2013.pdf Kingston, J. (2005) ‘Peace or Justice? East Timor’s Troubled Road’. The Asia-Pacific Journal: Japan Focus, 3(12): 1–6, retrieved from http://apjjf.org/-Jeff-Kingston/1673/article.html Krieger, H. (ed.) (1997) East Timor and the International Community: Basic Documents (Vol. 10), C ­ ambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Kyodo News International (2006, July 29) ‘ASEAN to Amend Its Amity Treaty If E. Timor Serious to join’. Kyodo News International, retrieved March 18, 2017, from www.etan.org/et2006/july/29/20asean.htm La’o Hamutuk (2013, May 23) ‘ASEAN and Free Trade’. La’o Hamutuk, retrieved July 21, 2017, from www.laohamutuk.org/econ/ASEAN/10ASEAN.htm La’o Hamutuk (2016) Submission to the Timor-Leste Ministry of State for Coordinating Economic Issues from La’o Hamutuk on the Proposed Private Investment Policy, Dili, Timor-Leste: La’o Hamutuk. La’o Hamutuk, retrieved from www.laohamutuk.org/econ/invest/LHSubMECAEInvestPolicy13Apr2016en.pdf La’o Hamutuk (2017) Annual Report La’o Hamutuk January-December 2016, Dili, Timor-Leste: La’o ­Hamutuk, retrieved from www.laohamutuk.org/ARept/2016/LHAnnualReport2016.pdf Leach, M. and Percival-Wood, S. (2014) ‘Timor-Leste: From INTERFET to ASEAN’. In The ­Australia-ASEAN Dialogue: Tracing 40 Years of Partnership, S. Percival-Wood and B. He (eds.): 7–85, New York: Palgrave Macmillan US. Ministry of Finance (2014) 2013 Development Cooperation Report for Timor-Leste: Donor Profiles, Dili, Timor-Leste: Development Partnership Management Unit, Ministry of Finance. Office of the President (2010) Timor-Leste Strategic Development Plan 2011–2030: Version Submitted to the National Parliament, Dili, Timor-Leste: Timor-Leste Government. Pereira, A. (2016, November 19) ‘Timor-Leste Approaching 2017 Elections with Confidence’. The Diplomat, retrieved December 28, 2016, from http://thediplomat.com/2016/11/timor-lesteapproaching-2017-elections-with-confidence/ Pereira, D. Da C. (2009, April 15) ‘East Timor’s Policy of Appeasement towards Indonesia’. Online Opinion, retrieved December 30, 2016, from www.onlineopinion.com.au/view.asp?article= 8785&page=0 Pinheiro, M. F. da C. (2014, February 12) ‘Timor-Leste’s Road to ASEAN’. Asia Foundation, retrieved December 23, 2016, from http://asiafoundation.org/2014/02/12/timor-lestes-road-to-asean/ ­ Rajoo, D. A. (2006, April 18) ‘Timor Leste Must Wait to Gain into ASEAN, Says Thailand’. Indonesian Embassy in Ottawa, Canada, retrieved from www.indonesia-ottawa.org/­information/details.php? type=news_copy&id=2469 Ravichandran, R. (2006, July 25) ‘Timor Leste Hopes ASEAN Will Relax Conditions on Membership’. ETAN, retrieved from www.etan.org/et2006/july/29/25tlhope.htm Roughneen, S. (2010, February 13) ‘Timor-Leste: Choosing between ASEAN and Burmese Reform?’ The Irrawaddy, retrieved from www.irrawaddy.org/article.php?art_id=17804 Seabra, P. (2013) ‘The Need for a Reshaped Foreign Policy’. In The Politics of Timor-Leste: Democratic Consolidation after Intervention, M. Leach and D. Kingsbury (eds.): 145–161, Ithaca, New York: ­Cornell University Press. Scheiner, C. (2017) ‘Timor-Leste’s Oil Wealth: Financing Government, Building for Government and Providing for Its People’. Presented at the Conference Marking 25 Years of the International Platform of Jurists for East Timor, Lisbon, Portugal, retrieved from laohamutuk.blogspot. com/2017/06/timor-lestes-oil-wealth-financing.html Smith, M. G., and Dee, M. (2006) ‘East Timor’. In Twenty-first-century Peace Operations, W. J. Durch (ed.): 389–466, Washington D.C.: United States Institute of Peace and the Henry L. Stimson Center. World Bank (2010) Expanding Timor-Leste’s Near Term Non-Oil Exports: Diagnostic Trade Integration Study (DTIS) Prepared for the Integrated Framework (Draft). Poverty Reduction and Economic Management Sector Unit, East Asia and Pacific Region, World Bank. Yusoff, M. N. (2009, February 2) ‘Timor Leste Preparing for ASEAN Membership’. Bernama, retrieved from www.bernama.com/bernama/v5/newsworld.php?id=387218

313

23 Overseas Chinese, soft power and China’s people-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste1 Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares

Introduction Over the past decades, people-to-people diplomacy, also known as public diplomacy, has become one of the cornerstones of international relations between countries around the world. This public diplomacy2 is often used by countries as a soft power instrument to build their relationship with other countries. Joseph S. Nye defines soft power as ‘the ability to get what you want through attraction rather than coercion or payments… Soft power arises from the attractiveness of a country’s culture, political ideals and policies.’ Conversely, hard power is defined as ‘the ability to coerce, grows out of a country’s military and economic might’ (Nye 2004: 256). People-to-people diplomacy has become part of China’s soft power tool which aims to foster and influence its relationship with other countries. The Chinese government considers its overseas community as an important asset in promoting and strengthening China’s presence and relationship to countries with which it engages. The term ‘overseas Chinese’ refers to two categories, Huaqiao and Huaren. The most widely accepted definition by academics and policy circles is that the Huaqiao is defined as overseas Chinese who reside outside China and have obtained permanent residency abroad but still maintain their Chinese nationality, whilst the Huaren is defined as those of ethnic Chinese who reside and become nationals of other countries (Tan 2013: 311). Many of their ancestors left China very long time ago (e.g. those of ethnic Chinese in the Southeast Asian countries). In May 2017, China and Timor-Leste celebrated 15 years of bilateral relations. China was the first country to present its credential and establish diplomatic relations with the newly independent Government of Timor-Leste in May 2002 (Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste 2002). Over the past 15 years, the relationship between the two countries has been cordial, and China’s presence in Timor-Leste has been on the rise. An indication of the close relationship can be seen in a series of fully funded public buildings in the Timorese capital Dili, as well as technical assistance in agriculture, health and military sectors, and modest foreign aid. The arrangement has become one of the cornerstones in China’s soft diplomacy with Timor-Leste. While engaging in providing development assistance to the country, China also highlighted people-to-people relations as an important pillar of its foreign policy relations with 314

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste

Timor-Leste. This was further manifested in April 2014 through the two countries’ high-level joint statement to establish a ‘Comprehensive Partnership of Good Neighbourly Friendship, Mutual Trust and Mutual Benefit’ (Timor-Leste Government 2014). A year later, in April 2015, China’s Vice Chairman of the Standing Committee of the 12th National People’s Congress (NPC), Chen Zhu, visited Timor-Leste and reiterated the importance of people-to-people relations as part of China’s overall practical cooperation with Timor-Leste towards broadening Beijing’s initiative in building the 21st Century M ­ aritime Silk Road (Xinhua Net 2015). Under the above framework, although there have been few reciprocal visits and exchange programmes,3 the real manifestation of the diplomacy has been the influx of Chinese citizens and labour migrants to Timor-Leste. These Chinese migrants formed a new overseas community and substantially increased the number of ethnic Chinese in the country. It is estimated that between 4,500 and 5,000 new Chinese migrants are currently residing in Timor-Leste. This chapter argues that Chinese government uses overseas Chinese in Timor-Leste as its public diplomacy agents for reviving and promoting China’s cultural values as well as advocating its political diplomacy in relation to Taiwan’s unification with Mainland China. Furthermore, as the Chinese in Timor-Leste are generally known for their entrepreneurial spirit and business acumen, the increased presence of the new Chinese migrants has changed particularly Timor-Leste’s economic landscape due to their predominant activities in this area. Thus, China’s people-to-people diplomacy may foster good relations between the two countries; however, it is not always mutually beneficial. This public diplomacy benefits China the most through its overseas community’s engagement as intermediary between the two countries, which fosters China’s economic advance through access to Timor-Leste’s markets, investments and public funds. Such engagement has created notable tensions, with some conflicting social and economic interests evident within the overseas Chinese community, between the Chinese-Timorese and the new Chinese migrants and between the new Chinese migrants and local community. The relationships also to some extent distort local cultural values. In the following discussion, I present an overview of Chinese migration to Timor-Leste. The analysis touches upon the overseas Chinese’s historical migration as well as the recent influx of new Chinese migrants. The second section examines the role of overseas Chinese as public diplomacy agents in China’s strategy for building people-to-people relations and illustrates how the Chinese government capitalises on its overseas Chinese residents to promote Chinese soft power. The third section analyses overseas Chinese’s engagement in social and economic activities, including established Chinese-Timorese dynamic interactions. The chapter concludes by highlighting a series of issues and concerns that are creating cultural and racial tensions in Timor-Leste over the rising presence of Chinese migrants and business interests.

An overview of overseas Chinese migration to Timor-Leste China has long history of contact with Timor-Leste. Previous research suggests that ­Chinese traders were visiting Timor, long before the first Portuguese in the sixteenth century, to trade sporadically in sandalwood, beeswax and honey (Durand 2016; Gunn 2016; Berlie 2015; Pinto 2015, 2014a; 2014b; Ptak 1987). Most of these Chinese merchants stayed temporarily, dependent on the duration of their trading activities and very few of them settled and established their business in Dili. By the eighteenth century, many overseas Chinese arrived from Macau and started to settle in Timor. First they settled in the Portuguese colony of Lifau and then moved to Dili in late eighteenth century along with the change of Portuguese Timor capital from Oecussi to Dili (Berlie 2015:40). However, it was only in 1906 that the Portuguese colonial government started to facilitate the arrival of a large number of overseas Chinese into the territory. They sought male labour from Canton, Guangdong and Fukien provinces in particular, as well as 315

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares

Macau (Kwartanada 2001: 7; Telkamp 1979: 7). Some of the migrants left China because of the decline of the Qing Empire’s social and economic power which led to large numbers of Chinese from rural areas leaving in search of a new life (Chew & Huang 2014: 306). The early arrival of Chinese migrants was accepted by the Portuguese colonial government to help increase local economic activities and to fill the gap in local skills such as ­m asonry, carpentry and other traders (Gunn 2010: 56; Saldanha 1994 in Kwartanada 2001: 4). The Portuguese authorities acknowledged the skills of the Chinese, which included their economic entrepreneurship and craftsmanship, and encouraged more immigration of Chinese families into the territory (Pinto 2014b: 276). The colonial government made a clear declaration that the Chinese were not allowed to be involved in local markets. This policy restriction was designed to give opportunities to Timorese sellers to vend local goods and agricultural products such as rice, cassava and beans, once a week and mostly on Sundays after the Mass. Conversely, the ­Portuguese authorities forbade Timorese involvement in any large-scale commerce and permitted only the Chinese and other outsiders such as the Arabs and Portuguese themselves to engage, even though the latter two were not the dominant players (Kwartanada 2001, 2004). The policy demonstrated that the Chinese community could benefit significantly from the colonial system. In return, many Chinese businesses became collaborators and supporters of the colonial government (Wise 2011: 147). In China, as political turmoil increased between nationalists under the Kuomintang and the communists under Mao Zedong, more people left the Mainland for Southeast Asian countries including Portuguese Timor (Chew & Huang 2014: 306). By 1975, it was estimated that around 25,0004 overseas Chinese resided in Timor-Leste (Berlie 2015: 40). Half of these people were Portuguese citizens and the remainder were Taiwanese (Capizzi, Hill & Macey 1976: 385). Despite some of them being married to local women and settling in ­different parts of the territory, the Portuguese colonial government discouraged them from assimilation into indigenous life. This policy was similar to that of the Dutch colonial ­government in ­Indonesia where the approach towards Chinese-Indonesians was pursued under ­anti-integrationist ­policies. Chinese-Indonesians were discouraged from assimilating into indigenous society (Turner 2003: 340). Right before the Indonesian invasion in N ­ ovember 1975, the Fretilin5 government promised to give citizen rights to the ethnic Chinese and become part of Timor-Leste society (Capizzi et al. 1976: 385). Prior to F ­ retilin’s declaration of independence, most ethnic Chinese were Taiwanese citizens, and only a few of them held Portuguese nationality. However, in January 1975, the Portuguese government issued a diplomatic communiqué stating its recognition of Taiwan as part of the ­People’s Republic of China (PRC)6 (Gonçalves 2003: 58). This left the nationality of ethnic ­Chinese uncertain. Today, these ethnic Chinese identify themselves as Chinese-Timorese or Timorese-­Chinese and Hakka speakers. Their homogeneity as the Hakka speakers stand in contrast with other Chinese groups in Indonesia and other parts of the Southeast Asian countries where mostly Hokkien and Teochew backgrounds predominate (Hoon 2008: 4). In ­Indonesia, legally ­Chinese-Indonesians are classified as Indonesian citizens, but culturally they are ­divided into peranakan, a term that refers to those ethnic Chinese who no longer speak Chinese languages or dialects, and totok, referring to ethnic Chinese who continue to speak Chinese. Unlike overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia where their identity was challenged, the Chinese-­Timorese ethnic identity has never been problematic either before or after independence. For example, the identity of ethnic Chinese in Indonesia was problematic and severely politicised with various restrictive laws imposed during almost 35 years of the Suharto regime (Koning & Susanto 2008: 161; Purdey 2003: 425). They were subject to suspicion particularly by the military as having a tendency of leaning towards the Indonesian Communist Party, which had links to the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). 316

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste

During the early years following the Indonesian invasion in 1975, many Timorese nationalists and Chinese-Timorese were killed by the Indonesian military. Amongst ethnic ­Chinese, in 1975 alone, around 700 were murdered (Berlie 2015: 40). Over the next few years, many Chinese-Timorese left the territory due to economic hardship and political pressure from the Indonesian government towards pro-independent groups in general. A year before the Indonesian invasion, a good number of wealthier ethnic Chinese left the territory following the Lisbon revolution on7 April 1974. Around 600 ethnic Chinese departed Dili by April 1975 with support from the ­Taiwanese government. This group dispersed to Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau and Australia (Nicol 2002: 61). The last destination was largely due to its geographical proximity to Timor-Leste and also reflected warnings from the Taiwanese Consul Huan Yinchuan not to enter Taiwan because of the sophistication and competitive business practices there (Nicol 2002). Following Indonesian occupation, many Chinese-Timorese decided to leave for ­Australia. The decision was influenced by the Australian government’s special programme called the Special Humanitarian Program in the 1980s which opened opportunities for many C ­ hinese-Timorese to migrate to Australia (Chew & Huang 2014: 310). According to the Australian government’s Department of Immigration and Citizenship’s 2011 Census report, there were 5,522 Timor-Leste-born Chinese living in Australia (Australian ­Government 2014). The departure of Chinese-Timorese from the territory created an economic vacuum in Timor-Leste. The Indonesian government then facilitated the arrival of around 1,000 ­Chinese-Indonesians with Hokkien origins during the early years of occupation (­Kwartanada 2001: 5). They were drawn from various places in Indonesia, including Kupang, Surabaya and Jakarta. Along with the Chinese-Indonesian were merchants from Makassar (Sulawesi) and other Indonesian, militaryback businessmen. These groups formed joint ventures for large business activities such as coffee and sandalwood trading (Dunn 2003: 221–222) and over the course of 25 years of Indonesian occupation, more than 10,000 ethnic Chinese lived in Timor-Leste. The arrival of Chinese-Indonesians not only filled the gap of economic activities after the departure of Chinese-Timorese but they also became economic intermediaries for the Indonesian government. This was similar to the role performed by the Chinese-Timorese during the colonial Portuguese era (Kwartanada 2001: 1). Following the 1999 referendum for independence, the Chinese-Indonesian community left along with the departure of the Indonesian regime from the territory. Normalisation of Timor-Leste-Indonesia relations has allowed some of them to return and settle again in Timor-Leste. This includes the owners of the two largest printing shops in Dili, Sylvia and Xeros. In the post-independence period, some Chinese-Timorese too have returned. Most of these returnees are Chinese-Timorese coming from Australia and some from Macau and Hong Kong. The returnees who decided to resettle include families associated with Jape, Lita Store, Leaders and Kathleen Gonçalves. Today, some 4,000 Chinese-Timorese currently live in Timor-Leste (Fieldwork interview, Dili, 22 August, 2014). During the UN transitional administration from 2000 to 2002, apart from a small number of Chinese police officers’ presence, few Chinese citizens from the Mainland or ­Southeast Asian countries entered Timor-Leste. Amongst this group, some were sojourners who stayed temporarily during the transition period. In the post-independence period, following the official establishment of China-Timor-Leste relations in 2002, the numbers of new ­Chinese migration from the Mainland increased and people in large numbers arrived from 2004 onwards. This contemporary wave of migration follows the pattern of Chinese migration in other parts of the world following the ‘open door’ policy that was launched by Deng ­X iaoping in the late 1970s. Chinese government and academics in general refer to this wave of Chinese migrants with the term ‘Xinyimin’ (Siriphon 2015: 148). 317

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares

This recent migration of overseas Chinese to Timor-Leste is mainly sourced from the southern province of Fujian. The majority are rural migrants. Fujian province is well known as China’s great source of internal and overseas migration over several centuries now (Liang & Morooka 2004: 145). Most of the present Chinese migrants in developing countries who migrated from the 1990s onwards are from Fujian (Pieke & Speelman 2013: 12). Fujian migrants are known for their resilience in the face of hardship. Despite an interruption during the 2006 political crisis where the Chinese Embassy in Timor-Leste evacuated around 250 residents along with a few Chinese-Timorese who sought refuge (Interview with a ­Chinese-Timorese named Afuk, 28 September 2014), many elected to stay behind. Those who left have returned to Timor-Leste when the security situation returned to normal. Since then, the number of newly arrived Chinese migrants has increased yearly. It is reported that around 3,500–4,0008 new Chinese migrants currently reside in Timor-Leste and some of them are married to local women and have children. Their numbers remain relatively small compared to 7,000 Indonesian citizens currently living and working in Timor-Leste (Aritonang 2015). Whilst the early migration was mostly driven by internal political turmoil and economic hardships in China and the colonial government’s migration policy, the recent wave of overseas Chinese migration reflects both push and pull factors in the country of origin and host country as determinants for migration (Guotu & Wangbo 2010; Liang & Morooka 2004; Thuno 2007). This includes a desire to look for better chance to improve life and easy access to economic opportunities as a result of life’s hardship and rising economic competition in China. The comparative experience of other developing countries suggests that some Chinese migrants have used the opportunity as a stepping stone to settle in other developed countries after accumulating some economic means in the first host country (Guotu & Wangbo 2010: 177–178). The reality of Timor-Leste as a young country became a great pull factor attracting overseas Chinese to chase new market opportunities, especially for China’s cheap products.9 Today, the overseas Chinese community in Timor-Leste comprises Chinese-Timorese (or Timorese-Chinese), new Chinese migrants from the Mainland and other ethnic C ­ hinese from Macau, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, Philippines, Thailand and ­Vietnam. Amongst this community, despite all being considered overseas Chinese, there are complex differences amongst the groups given their very different origins, tenures, as well as ideological and political stances (Liu 2005). For example, the Chinese-Timorese consider themselves to be local and view the new Chinese migrants and other ethnic Chinese as foreigners. They do not share cultural backgrounds, speak different languages and have different lifestyles. Most Chinese-Timorese adopted some elements of local culture whilst maintaining their Chinese traditions. For the purpose of this chapter, I focus mainly on the new Chinese migrants or Xinyimin from the Chinese Mainland and Chinese-Timorese for their historical presence and their dynamic interaction in social and economic activities in Timor-Leste.

Overseas Chinese and China’s public diplomacy in Timor-Leste Public diplomacy has become important part of Beijing’s foreign policy and is considered an essential element of state soft power (Manurung & Saudek 2016: 4). Over the past three decades, the Chinese government regards overseas Chinese as instrumental to China’s public diplomacy to promote China’s image around the world (d’Hooghe 2007: 26; Ding 2014: 9). China’s public diplomacy through its overseas community’s interactions in Timor-Leste is slowly gaining traction along with its increased presence in the country. The Chinese government views overseas Chinese in Timor-Leste as key advocates for its growing public diplomacy through various social and cultural activities. These efforts have been directed 318

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste

principally into three areas of strategic public diplomacy: promoting the Chinese image through the revival of and promotion of Chinese culture including promotion of Chinese culture, advocating its political diplomacy for unification of China and promoting China’s economic interests.

Promoting the revival of Chinese culture To bolster its public diplomacy strategy, one of the approaches China uses is to embrace the Chinese-Timorese community. The Chinese Embassy in Dili has occasionally supported the Chinese-Timorese in the form of in-kind and financial contributions to their social and cultural festivities. The Chinese government has built close relations with representatives of the Chinese-Timorese and unofficially considers them to be part of its overseas community10 at large. The Chinese government has capitalised on the Chinese-Timorese knowledge of the country, their social, political and economic networks, as well as language ability to promote its public diplomacy in the territory. Oftentimes, the Chinese-Timorese have been asked to facilitate relations between the Chinese Embassy and local Timorese, between the government of Timor-Leste and the new Chinese migrants and between local communities and new Chinese migrants. China is keen to promote its prestige through cultural promotion and the construction of favourable views towards the Chinese presence. Previously, the Indonesian government had prohibited the PRC’s influence in the territory including terminating cultural links with Taiwan (Berlie 2015: 40). This was because Chinese-Indonesian diplomatic ties had been frozen for almost a quarter century until 1990. Nonetheless, the Chinese-Timorese community in the territory had quietly maintained Chinese traditions and cultural practices. Beijing hopes to revitalise and foster Chinese culture in Timor-Leste with the involvement of the overseas Chinese community in the establishment of a Chinese cultural centre and a Chinese school to teach Chinese language in country. Currently, the Chinese government is still relying on the Chinese-Timorese community to broker an agreement with the government of Timor-Leste to reclaim the Sional building that is located at the waterfront in Dili. The Associação Comercial da Comunidade Shinesa Timor-Oan (Chinese-­Timorese ­Community Business Association) has been the leading negotiator in this matter with support from various Chinese-Timorese associations abroad including the Chinese-Timorese Association of New South Wales and Victoria, Australia. The Sional building was built by the ­Chinese-Timorese community and rented to the Taiwanese government for its consular office until 1975. During the Indonesian period the building was utilised as the Indonesian Navy headquarters. It is now occupied by the Office of Secretary of State for Youth and Sports. However, there is an expectation that the premises will be converted into an overseas Chinese centre for social and cultural activities.11 In the interest of revitalising Chinese culture, the ­Chinese-Timorese community is also keen to revive an old Chinese school for teaching Chinese language and culture. The Chinese-Timorese Association has been attempting to reclaim the former Chinese high school in Dili known as Chun Fá Hok Tong Su Pó Sá. This school was registered under the Portuguese colonial government in 1960 (Boletim Oficial de Timor No. 27-2: 345) and is now one of the public primary schools in Dili. During the Portuguese era, there were several Chinese schools in the territory, including a high school, all funded by the Taiwanese government (Wise 2011: 147). Formerly, the Taiwanese government supported these schools by sending teachers, textbooks and all related learning materials as well as scholarships for Chinese-Timorese students to continue their study at the university level in Taiwan.12 319

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares

Whilst expecting an agreement to be reached, the current Chinese government is in the planning process to establish a Confucius Institute13 in Dili to promote Chinese culture. Discussion on the plan has been taken place between representative of Chinese Embassy, Timor-Leste government and the National University of Timor-Leste and it is now waiting for Timor-Leste’s government to take further action. Apart from the state’s attempt to promote Chinese culture, the ethnic Chinese community also plays an active role in promoting Chinese identity in the country. This can be seen in the continued existence of some Chinese places of worship from the Portuguese era such as the Chinese Temple in Dili and Chinese cemeteries in several districts. The Chinese Temple (Kuang Ti Meu) in Dili, was inaugurated in 1931, and has been used as a place for prayer and other ritual observances and also provides a structure to preserve Chinese cultural tradition. Despite Indonesian authorities’ ban on all public events associated with Chinese tradition, they did not prevent the Chinese community from visiting the Chinese Temple and cemeteries for prayer (Sambayan). Thus, the Chinese community has continued to practice Chinese tradition through ritual ceremonies, the celebration of Chinese New Year and the use of Chinese names. With the massive influx of the new Chinese migrants in Timor-Leste, the effort to promote the construction of Chinese ethnicity in the country is rising. For example, in the past, there was no such thing called ‘China-Town’ in Timor-Leste. With the massive arrival of the Chinese new migrants, there is a concentration of the new Chinese migrants’ community along the street of one of the neighbourhoods in Dili called Hudi-Laran. The locals named it with slang term Xina-Laran (Chinese neighbourhood). It is not impossible the neighbourhood to become the so-called ‘China-Town’ in Timor-Leste in the future. Other evidence can be observed through the ubiquitous of Chinese goods, cuisines via Chinese restaurants in the capital Dili and other paraphernalia as well as celebration of Chinese folklores such as Chinese New Year celebration and Moonlight Festivals. For years, the Chinese Timorese community has been lobbying the Timor-Leste Government to consider the Chinese New Year’s Day as part of the National ­Holidays and Official Commemorative Dates in Timor-Leste. In 2018, under the Law no. 10/2005 on National Holidays and Official Commemorative Dates, the Timor-Leste Government finally granted a Day-Off on 16 February on the occasion of the Chinese New Year’s Day celebrations (Timor-Leste Government, 2018). Both the Chinese Timorese and the new Chinese migrants community in Dili welcomed the decision positively. The day was observed with a number of cultural events including dragon dance performances in a number of places in Dili and a courtesy visit to the Chinese Embassy compound in Dili. In the Embassy compound, the Chinese A ­ mbassador Liu Hongyang and other Chinese diplomatic officials warmly welcomed them for about one hour and jointly observed the Day-Off (Fieldwork observation – Dili, 16 February 2018).

Political diplomacy for China’s unification The question of Taiwan’s unification to Mainland China has become one of the core principles of China’s foreign policy over the past six and a half decades since Taiwan’s secession from the Mainland led by Chiang Kai-shek in 1949. This leads Beijing officials to define China’s key political objectives in the twenty-first century as reunification and rejuvenation, and overseas Chinese are considered to be ‘potential political assets’ to accomplish the tasks (Barabantseva 2010: 130). In many countries, China’s overseas community establish branch chapters of the China Council for the Promotion Peaceful National ­Reunification to facilitate the campaign for China’s unification. As of 2016, there are now 86 councils around the world. Although many of these councils claim as independent non-­ governmental organisations, the overseas councils’ websites are expected to be linked to the 320

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste

Chinese government’s official websites such as Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the CCP’s United Front14 (Callick 2016). In Timor-Leste, there has not been any overseas Chinese unification council or other organisation to publicly campaign for Taiwan’s unification. The Chinese government, whilst expecting its overseas Chinese to play a significant role in bridging China’s political communication and promoting China’s image abroad, is also sensitive to the legacy of ­Taiwan’s influence amongst the Chinese-Timorese community. During the Indonesian time, the ­Taiwan link was sustained through Chinese-Timorese living overseas in places such as ­Australia and Macau and this was the reason for the Chinese government’s concern. In ­Australia, many first generation of Chinese-Timorese’s have strong attachments to T ­ aiwanese culture and tradition, and some of them have Chinese business links with Taiwan. The ­Taiwanese government has funded Chinese-Timorese Associations’ activities such as cultural practices and Mandarin classes for Chinese-Timorese’s children (Wise 2011: 153). Chinese-Timorese in Timor-Leste, despite echoing the Timor-Leste government’s position and their public acknowledgment about the One-China Policy, do not completely lose sight of Taiwan. The Chinese-Timorese’s position on this matter is in stark contrast to that of the new Chinese migrants who recognise the One-China Policy without reservation.15 Chinese-­ Timorese have continued to maintain low-profile communication with Taiwan on trade and investment opportunities in Timor-Leste. Since independence, a number of Taiwanese businessmen have been paying frequent visits on tourist visas to Timor-Leste, looking for business opportunities. Taiwan’s link with the Chinese-Timorese business community operates through Taiwan’s Trade Center in Jakarta.16 This shows China and Taiwan compete to have influence over Chinese-Timorese community in Timor-Leste. Taiwan uses historical ties and economic diplomacy to woo and maintain links with Chinese-­Timorese community. Since 2007, however, due to China’s active diplomacy and Timor-Leste government’s firm commitment to the One-China Policy, Taiwan’s attempt through the ­Taiwanese Trade Center has declined. Despite Chinese-Timorese’s strong attachment to Taiwan, the PRC government continues to consider the overseas Chinese community as its important asset to advocate for Taiwan’s unification in the future. In approaching the issue, through its embassy in Dili, the Chinese government persuasively communicates with representatives of the overseas C ­ hinese com­ hinese government munity about the importance of maintaining national integrity.17 The C also uses local media to communicate and raise awareness about ­China’s sovereignty.18 This demonstrates that despite the absence of any formal unification group in Timor-Leste, overseas Chinese community’s cooperation and willingness to embrace the government’s policy indicates their support for the unification campaign. The Chinese-­Timorese community in particular believes that China will be stronger politically and economically if they are together.

Promoting China’s economic interest Overseas Chinese have become important economic intermediaries for China’s economic development (Lee 2016; Pieke & Speelman 2013; Smart & Hsu 2004). Their engagement in economic activities has been closely linked to China’s 1990s ‘going out’ or ‘going global’ strategy. The strategy encourages Chinese citizens and Chinese enterprises both state- and non-state-owned companies to leave China and to venture overseas (Liping 2011: 214). Overseas Chinese are seen as not only equipped with great financial capital and high skills in technology, but possessing wider business networks where they can link China with other ­ resident Xi countries through trade and investment. With the current leadership under P Jinping China expects overseas Chinese to be involved in shaping its economic reach in the 321

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares

twenty-first century and promoting China’s economic interest through its One Belt, One Road (OBOR) policy (Wijaya 2016). The recent influx of new Chinese migrants and Chinese enterprises to Timor-Leste is arguably part of China’s strategy to expand its economic activities in Timor-Leste. The Chinese government has been facilitating their migration,19 and some have been arriving through informal networks or family links with the previous arrivals and some through the Associação Comercial da Comunidade Xinesa Timor-Oan. The exact number of overseas Chinese enterprises is difficult to determine due to the absence of official statistics. However, some of the Chinese enterprises, mostly state owned, are currently involved in a range of construction projects including the Chinese Nuclear Industry 22nd (CNI22), China International Construction Cooperation, Fujian International Cooperation, Guangxi International Construction Engineering, China Shandong International Economic and Technical Cooperation Group Co. Ltd and Shun International Economical and Technical Corporation Group Company. The projects are funded by the Chinese government through grants and compete for public tenders in Timor-Leste.20 But it is also important to note that there are many countries competing for economic opportunities through in Timor-Leste through public tenders, such as Indonesia, ­Portugal, Australia, France and South Korea. Indonesian state-owned companies are arguably the biggest beneficiaries accessing Timor-Leste’s public funds, presumably because of their close connections with Timorese businessmen and political elites. Currently, there are more than 7,000 Indonesian residing in Timor-Leste. In an interview with the Jakarta Post Newspaper, former Prime Minister Rui Maria de Araújo stated that there were 24 ­Indonesian state-owned companies and up to 400 Indonesian private companies operating in ­Timor-Leste (Aritonang, The Jakarta Post, 31 Augustus 2015). The Indonesian Ambassador to ­Timor-Leste, Sahat Sitorus confirmed the dominant presence of Indonesian state enterprises in ­Timor-Leste (Simorangkir, Detik Finance, September 2017).21 China has linked Timor-Leste as part of its OBOR Initiative. Timor-Leste is among the 64 countries that are currently registered under the Initiative. China relies on its state and privately owned companies operating overseas to play a bridging role in implementing the Initiative. During his visit to Timor-Leste in May 2017, Vice-chairman of the National People’s Congress Standing Committee Zhang Ping met and had cordial talks with representatives of China Enterprises Association in Timor-Leste. The Vice-chairman’s meeting was accompanied by the head of the Timor-Leste branch of International Cooperation Corporation Wang Qingfeng. In the meeting, Vice-chairman Zhang Ping call for Chinese business association in the country that “all the Chinese-funded enterprises in East Timor should grasp the opportunity of the ‘Belt and Road’, make intensified efforts to build the brand and enhance the strength, so as to go global.” In response, the head of the Timor-Leste branch of the International Cooperation Corporation expressed Chinese enterprises’ stand that they will make joint efforts with each other, fight an uphill battle and achieve great success under the support of the policies on the “Belt and Road” (Shandong Hi-Speed Group Co., L., 2017). Such determination demonstrates Beijing’s “going out strategy” by encouraging its private and stateowned companies to go abroad with positive works in serving China’s long-term interests.

Overseas Chinese, economic activities and positive implications Most overseas Chinese community in Timor-Leste are involved in economic activities from small to medium enterprises. This makes the overseas Chinese community one of the significant players in Timor-Leste’s economy. During Portuguese times, ethnic Chinese monopolised the territory’s economy, controlled retail commerce and also cultivated and exported Timor 322

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste

coffee. Out of 25 largest firms in the Portuguese territory, only 2 of them were ­Portuguese firms, namely, SAPT and SOTA 22 and amongst some 400 wholesale and retail commerce in the Portuguese territory, 95% of them belonged to Chinese. This, however, does not mean that all ethnic Chinese are affluent as 20% of them live at the poverty levels similar to a large number of the Timorese families. Amongst the ethnic Chinese businessmen the most vibrant and largest businesses at that time was the Sang Tai Hoo family – owned by two brothers (Dunn 2003: 38– 39). During that time, the Sang Tai Hoo family extended their business network to other parts of Asia, mainly Hong Kong, Singapore and Macau. Today, amongst the Chinese-Timorese community, the top three business enterprises are AKAM (the owner of Leader, Lita Store and Toyota dealer), the Jape family which owns Timor-Plaza and the Star King. Unlike the old community, most new Chinese migrants who are involved in trading activities have settled across the country but mainly concentrate in the capital Dili, the centre of economic activity. Most of these new Chinese merchants occupy strategic locations along the main roads for easy access by renting land and properties from local government and private individuals, usually for minimum periods of 10–20 years.23 The absence of formal statistics on foreign business enterprises in Timor-Leste makes it difficult to provide accurate figures of new Chinese migrants’ business properties. However, it is estimated that there are currently more than 4,500–5,000 new Chinese migrants living in the country and up to 300–400 business enterprises that are currently owned by the new Chinese merchants. They are involved in diverse economic activities from trading and retailing of cheap goods to wholesaling of construction materials, hotel businesses, gas stations, restaurants, Internet cafes and brothels. Most of the goods and materials sold are directly imported from China and some from Indonesia. The increased presence of new overseas Chinese and their involvement in diverse economic activities have prompted conflicting views not only amongst locals and the ­Timor-Leste government but also amongst the Chinese-Timorese community. Some Timorese and the Timor-Leste government welcome these developments, others are critical about the new Chinese migrant’s presence and their engagement in the country. On the positive side, the new Chinese migrant presence helps address local needs and contribute to social and economic development of Timor-Leste.24 In addition, new Chinese migrants help improve the local economy generating income and tax payments, and many Timorese families benefit by leasing private and state-owned lands and properties. New Chinese migrants are also known as risk-takers, taking economic activities to very remote parts of the country when other merchants, including Timorese, are hesitant to take the risk. New Chinese migrant engagements in economic activities also help create job opportunities for locals and create competitive markets. This not only generates income especially in the districts but also improves young Timorese’s knowledge and skills about business development. Chinese’s cheap products make goods affordable for almost everyone in the country. The philosophy behind it is that China intends to produce goods that serve the needs of people across the spectrum. Although Chinese producers do not completely neglect quality considerations, low price considerations tend to dominate production especially for developing countries’ markets.

Issues and concerns In spite of the above positive implications, a number of issues and concerns have arisen that carry social, cultural, economic and political repercussions. Arguably certain acts and practices of the Chinese-Timorese and new Chinese migrants can be considered forms of neocolonialism. This can be observed through the influx of new Chinese migrants and their occupation in strategic economic sectors as well as the domination a number of key economic activities. 323

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares

Moreover, the experiences of Timor-Leste are not a unique case as Ogunrotifa Ayodeji Bayo has observed about Africa’s recent experience of Chinese migrants, which he has also characterised as forms of neocolonialism through diverse interventions (Bayo 2011: 228). Many in Timor-Leste have observed that the relationship between new Chinese migrants and locals in certain practices have the effect of distorting local cultural values. For example, during every All Souls’ Day in early November (loron matebian), Timorese families observe the Day solemnly by visiting the graves, praying, laying flowers and lighting candles in honour of the death ones. New Chinese merchants initiated the vending of plastic flowers and candles in front of cemeteries in Dili during the observance day. But the practice is considerably inappropriate because no merchants including Chinese-Timorese business community have ever done so. Traditionally, Timorese families prefer to prepare the flowers and candles carefully from home. Tensions also arise in other ways. Some new Chinese migrants stay illegally after visa expiration. Some of them have married local women in remote places in order to have easy access to land and other properties25 as a way of circumventing the law that does not permit foreigners to own land and properties in the country. Others operate in joint venture partnerships using Timorese names for business registration to avoid high-paying taxes.26 The involvement of new Chinese migrants’ in various economic opportunities, particularly in local economy, creates tensions with Chinese-Timorese and locals alike. The  ­Chinese-Timorese feel threatened that the new Chinese merchants and other ethnic Chinese are taking over their privilege roles as major economic players in Timor-Leste’s economy. New Chinese migrants’ encroachment into local market has heavily influenced the traditional market development, which has to date been dominated by locals.27 Moreover, new Chinese migrants mainly prefer to remit their profits to China rather than reinvest them in Timor. This is comparable to the strategies used by the ethnic Chinese community during the Portuguese colonial administration. At that time substantial remittances were channelled to Taiwan or Macau and were used in part to sustain the revolutionary wars efforts of Chiang Kai-shek and the nationalists. Similar gestures were made by most resident overseas Chinese across Southeast Asia (Yong & McKenna 1990 in Cheok, Lee & Lee 2013: 76). New Chinese migrant engagement has also raised environmental and safety issues. The increased presence of new Chinese merchants has forced some Timorese families in the capital to move further inland or up into the hills in search of accommodation, as residential density and prices in the city are increasing. Reports of isolated incidents of fighting involving locals and new Chinese migrants in the capital Dili and districts are attributed to social jealousies. It may be premature to claim that there has been a rise in open anti-Chinese sentiment in Timor-Leste, but isolated incidents have raised tensions and directed racially motivated sentiments against new Chinese migrants. Some conflicts have forced the Chinese Embassy to intervene for the protection of its nationals. The Embassy is also now more preoccupied with the wellbeing and security of its nationals than has been the case in the past. As former Chinese Consul Chung in Dili stated, ‘… The growing number of Chinese coming here is really keeping us busy, (as) very often they get into trouble with locals’ (Loro-Horta 2011). Furthermore, some new Chinese migrants may have been involved in illegal activities including human trafficking, gambling and money laundering. More brothels are open in Dili with Chinese women and women from other Southeast Asian countries to provide sex services. According to a former UN Police Officer (UNPOL) who worked at the Investigation Unit, new Chinese migrants have been actively supporting established black market money lending since 2007 directed mainly to new Chinese migrants but including some ethnic Timorese. 28 On another front, recently, a Chinese company named Fuzhou Hoo Long Ocean ­Fishing Co. Ltd, which was licenced 324

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste

by the Timorese government to fish in Timor-Leste seas, was found to be involved in illegal fishing of protected fish species, particularly shark. The exposure of their activities by green activists, Sea Shepherd Asia prompted public protests and resulted in the suspension of their fishing licence (Sampaio, Lusa, 22 S­ eptember 2017). These diverse and relatively low-level issues and concerns not only involve new Chinese migrants and enterprises but also some members of the Chinese-Timorese community who have been accused of ‘land grabbing’. For example, there are accusations that the Jape Kong Su family evicted many Timorese families to build its modern Timor-Plaza. The eviction case prompted tensions between Timor-Plaza developers, local landowner and a local rights organisation in Timor-Leste, which protested the case in defence of evicted families.29 The case of Timor-Plaza development also generated public accusations of bribery involving a former minister of justice and the charge that Timor-Plaza was permitted to use the five acres land of land in Comoro in return for a large private house construction in ­Manufahi district. As a top player in property business amongst Chinese-Timorese, in 2013, the Timor-Plaza Company also reportedly bought more than 50 acres of elevated land in eastern Dili at a very cheap price. The land is expected to be rented out for hotels and other business properties. 30

Conclusion Today, people-to-people or public diplomacy has become a potent diplomatic tool for many countries’ foreign relations. It has served as a soft power tool to advance Beijing’s global rise through overseas Chinese’s engagement and provides an important asset to promote China’s social, cultural, political and economic interests around the world. So far, China has benefited greatly from its overseas community’s interactions in various ways. Beijing’s view about the importance of ethnic Chinese roles in people-to-people relations regardless of their nationality, either Huaqiao or Huaren, serves as a strategic tool to gain access to other countries. For example, prior to China’s official establishment of diplomatic relations with Timor-Leste, in his first meeting with Timorese leader Xanana Gusmão in Beijing in 2001, one of former President Hu Jintao’s early questions was about ethnic Chinese life in ­Timor-Leste (Wise 2011: 150). China’s presence in Timor-Leste will continue into the foreseeable future, and its overseas community will no doubt become important agents for China’s long-term relationships with the country. Timor-Leste has felt the impact of this pattern of Chinese public diplomacy that has fostered historical and friendly relations with Timor-Leste to strengthen the relationship. To date, the relationship has helped promote the international image of both countries, but it has also had repercussions that affect the political economy of Timor-Leste and social relations within Timorese society. Overseas Chinese have taken advantage of the policy and regulatory gaps as well as limited institutional capacity to advance their political and economic interests. For many, the vaunted mutually beneficial relationship between China and Timor-Leste remains weighted more heavily in favour of China and its overseas citizens than Timor-Leste.

Notes 1 This chapter is part of the author’s research project for her PhD studies on China-Timor-Leste relations at Swinburne University of Technology, Melbourne. The empirical data use in this chapter derive from the author’s fieldwork from 2014 to 2017. 2 Paul Sharp defines public diplomacy as ‘the process by which direct relations with people in a country are pursued to advance the interests and extend the values of those being presented’ (Sharp in Jan Melissen 2005 in Ingrid d’Hooghe 2007: 5). This definition suggests a broader interaction beyond the state level, and thus it includes non-state actors’ involvement in public diplomacy.

325

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares 3 Reciprocal visits involve government officials including military officials, representatives of political parties, and public and private enterprises. There have been frequent visits of Chinese business community to Timor-Leste. Some of them have been facilitated through the Macau Forum for Economic Cooperation between China and the Portuguese-speaking countries. Since 2003, the Chinese government has dispatched three to five Chinese medical doctors on an annual basis to provide medical treatment. The Chinese government also provides scholarships for Timorese students and short training courses for Timorese governmental officials in China. As of mid-2017, the total number of Timorese students and public officials including military official who have received short training course in China is estimated more than 1,500 people with 120 of them students (Chinese Embassy, 28 August 2017). 4 Other sources reported that up to 1975 there were around 20,000 Chinese Hakka lived in Portuguese Timor – see Daniel Chew and J Sonia Huang (2014) at http://ghk.nctu.edu.tw/ word/%E9%BB%83%E9%9D%9C%E8%93%890501.pdf. While others stated there were 13,500 (Kwartanada 2001: 5). 5 Fretilin was formed in 1974 – originally named the ASDT as an independent movement against Portugal. 6 The common expression amongst and towards overseas Chinese who arrived before 1975 in TimorLeste is Xina-Timor (literal translation is Chinese-Timorese). During field research in Dili, however, a respondent with Chinese background strongly defended her social identity as ­Timorese-Chinese, not as Chinese-Timorese. She wants to emphasis her Timorese side of the family first, then the Chinese part of her identity. She is a third-generation Chinese in Timor-Leste; both her maternal and paternal grandparents came from Canton, China, in the mid-nineteenth century. Not all Chinese-Timorese share similar concern about this ambiguous term (Fieldwork interview, Dili, 15 June 2015). 7 The Lisbon Revolution is also known as the Carnation Revolution led by the Portuguese armed forces in April 1974 to overthrow the dictator regime or Estado Novo/New State under António de Oliveira Salazar. The fall of the Estado Novo also led to the end of Portuguese colonial power in Africa (Angola, Mozambique, Guinea Bissau and São Tomé and Príncipe) and Timor-Leste and only then was invaded by Indonesia and occupied for 24 years. 8 According to a research report conducted by the Office of President in 2014, 1,000 new Chinese migrants arrived in Timor-Leste. The Immigration Office reported around 3,000–4,000 new Chinese migrants arriving in Timor-Leste between 2002 and 2014. Some of them left the country after their contracts terminated with Chinese companies. However, the number of new arrivals has continued to increase annually. 9 In an interview with a new Chinese migrant in Dili, the respondent said, ‘Timor-Leste has [a] bright future…the country has great opportunity for conducting business…it has enormous potential for future market because there is not much economic competition on the ground…’ (Fieldwork interview, Dili, 25 September 2014). 10 Kathleen Gonçalves, former president of the Chinese-Timorese Association and third generation of Chinese-Timorese in Dili, confirms that China considered and classified Chinese-Timorese as part of its overseas community regardless of how long they have been living and becoming part of Timorese society at large. Nonetheless, Chinese-Timorese community do not share sense of common identity and cultural values with the new Chinese migrants. Chinese-Timorese are more sensitive to local culture and many of them are well adjusted and adopted Timorese culture as part of their culture as well. Most Chinese-Timorese consider themselves more Timorese despite their continuous practice and have close attachment to Chinese culture (Fieldwork interview – Dili, 8 and 22 August 2014). This is very common amongst overseas Chinese elsewhere for their continuous strong attachment and holding onto Chinese culture, despite long separation from the Mainland and experienced social and political repression from their host countries. 11 Fieldwork interview with President of the Chinese-Timorese Community Business Association – Dili, 22 September 2015. 12 Fieldwork interview with President of the Chinese-Timorese Community Business Association. Dili, 23 September 2015. 13 The Confucius Institute is China’s non-profit organisation, similar to British Council and ­German Goethe Institutes, known for teaching Chinese language and promoting Chinese culture or spreading China abroad. As of 2012, there were a total of 322 Chinese Confucius Institute installed in foreign universities, in both developed and developing countries, and thought in 369 classrooms to elementary and high school students (Hays 2012).

326

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste 14 United Front of the People’s Republic of China is a political and popular front under the CCP’s leadership. It consists of the CCP itself and eight small political groups (the China Revolutionary Committee of the Kuomintang, China Democratic League, China Democratic National Construction Association, China Association for the Promotion of Democracy, Chinese Peasants’ and Workers’ Democratic Party, China Zhi Gong Dang, Jiusan Society and the Taiwan Democratic Self-government League) as well as the All-China Federation of Industry and Commerce. The eight small political groups are not opposition parties to the CCP. 15 In my separate interviews with the new Chinese migrants’ coordinator Chenguo Qin and the current President of the Chinese-Timorese Association Lay Siu Pan, the former said, ‘we are from the Mainland, we have to support the central government’s policy and we consider Taiwan is part of China’ (Fieldwork interview – Dili, 4 September 2014). The latter states, ‘… We see China as one…we wanted to see China as one country in the world. We are fully supportive of Timor-Leste government’s policy in maintaining good relations with China and we respect China’s One China Policy…but we are more familiar with Taiwan because of our historical relations’ (Fieldwork ­interview – Dili, 19 September 2014). 16 During my interview with former President of the Chinese-Timorese Association Kathleen Gonçalves, she said between 2004 and 2006, Taiwanese Trade Center in Jakarta invited Timorese Member of Parliament to Taiwan as part of Taiwan’s people-to-people relations programme (Fieldwork interview – Dili, 8 August 2014). 17 Kathleen Gonçalves recalls, ‘The Chinese Embassy frequently invites us to talk about China’s national territory…we discuss border issue between Taiwan and Mainland China and also Tibet. They want to make sure we are aware about the issue and understand their concerns. Every time there is tension that involves China and other countries regarding territorial issue, they always call us for briefing and emphasizing the One-China Policy. We support the initiative because it is good for us…’ (Interview – Dili, 8 August 2014). 18 For example, in 2016, as the tension in the South China Sea escalated, Chinese Embassy in Dili published Beijing’s official statement about China’s territorial integrity and its historical claim in the South China Sea in a local newspaper within three consecutive days. The statement presumably not only targeted overseas Chinese community but also Timor-Leste and other foreign audience in general. 19 According to representative of new Chinese migrants in Dili, Chinese authorities include staff of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Ministry of Public Security and Overseas Affairs Office of the State Council, who work collaboratively in facilitating the migration. Some of the new Chinese migrants have been arriving through informal networks and family links. 20 For example, the CNI22 won more than US$350 million public tender to build power plan in Timor-Leste (La’o Hamutuk 2013). 21 Indonesian state-owned enterprises include Hutama Karya, Waskita, WIKA, PT PP and Adhi Karya and are involved in road construction, houses, buildings as well as cinemas (Simorangkir, 20 September 2017). 22 SAPT (Sociedade Agricola Patria e Trabalho, also known as the Sociedade) was a state-owned firm established by Portuguese Governor Celestino da Silva towards the end of the 1800s. It holds 48% of its share in the firm. Meanwhile, SOTA (Sociedade Orientale do Transportes e Armazens) was an investment company controlled by the Japanese before Portuguese took over after Japanese’s occupation during the WWII. It was a successor to the pre-war Asia Investment Company. These two companies involved largely in coffee plantations and export/import activities (Dunn 2003: 38). 23 The renting cost is ranging from US$300 to more than US$1,000 per month (Fieldwork interview with a new Chinese merchant, Zhen Jiang – Dili, 3 September 2014). 24 As former Chief of Staff of the Presidency Office stated, …I think, like many countries in other part of the world, the influx of new immigrants such as newly arrival Chinese and other foreign workers could recreate and create opportunity in the part of the local economy to grow. Having rather criminalizing immigration is not a solution, or having utterly and strongly xenophobic policy is not a solution either. Timor-Leste is hoping to become a member of ASEAN and ASEAN would soon have its free mobility of its people…more people coming in from the region. The way the Chinese people doing business in Timor-Leste…this is one manifestation of Timor-Leste’s integration into regional framework…I think what we have to do, rather than criminalizing that, we have to make sure that our people become more competitive and be more prepared… (Fieldwork interview with Fidelis Magalhaes – Dili, 2 September 2014)

327

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares 25 As a Timorese senior scholar noted with concern, … With many Chinese newcomers coming into Timor-Leste, their relationship with ­Timorese is also full of risk – they will influence Timorese’s social and cultural domain through ­inter-marriage like Chinese people in the past… I see this phenomenon as natural but it is not normal. It is natural because we see inter-racial marriage is everywhere but it is not normal because it does not follow Timor-Leste’s cultural norms and as a result, things that are supposedly natural become not natural. This will bring risk to Timor-Leste in the future. For example, they get married with Timorese and can buy lots of land and own properties in Timor-Leste – this will create a lot of problem in the future… (Fieldwork interview with Lucas da Costa – Dili, 2 September 2014) 26 A local newspaper Independent reported information from the Timor-Leste Business Registration Center (SERVER) local Timorese in Dili who have facilitated new Chinese traders’ by giving their names and properties for new Chinese traders’ business registration (dos Santos, Independent 2017). Such practices complicated Timor-Leste government’s control over foreign business’ tax payment. 27 In an interview with a Chinese-Timorese, the respondent stated that new Chinese migrants are greedy and very aggressive in doing business – their presence destroyed local market development and has increased price for renting lands and properties (Fieldwork interview – Dili, 8 October 2014). 28 Fieldwork interview with former UN Police Officer Jose Brito – Dili, 13 October 2014. 29 A local non-governmental organisation Matadalan ba Rai-Haburas Foundation noted, In Comoro, a luxury shopping mall called Timor Plaza has recently been built by a large construction company from Darwin called Jape Construction. Many people cite this shopping mall as the real signal that Timor-Leste is finally developing. The reality is that Timor Plaza is a business whose objective is wealth accumulation…the project of this private company resulted in the forced evection of many families… (Matadalan ba Rai- Haburas Foundation 2010: 73) 30 Fieldwork interview with a Timorese worker for Jape Company – Dili, 4 September 2014.

References Aritonang, M. (2015). Discourse: Indonesia, Timor Leste have developed a mature relationship: PM Rui Maria De Araujo. Retrieved 20 November 2016, from the Jakarta Post: www.thejakarta post.com/news/2015/08/31/discourse-indonesiatimor-leste-have-developed-a-mature-­relationshippm.html Australian Government – Department of Social Services. (2014). The Timor-Leste born community. Retrieved 9 February 2017, from www.dss.gov.au/sites/default/files/documents/02_2014/ timor_leste.pdf Bayo, O. A. (2011). The Chinese in Africa: New colonialism is not a new deal. Bostwana Journal of African Studies, 25(2), 228–245. Berlie, J. A. (2015). Chinese in East Timor: Identity, society and economy. HumaNetten, 35 (Autumn), 35–49. Callick, R. (2016). ‘Non-profit’ group linked to Chinese donors. Retrieved 30 March 2017, from www. theaustralian.com.au/national-affairs/foreign-affairs/nonprofit-group-linked-to-chinese-donors/ news-story/fa4c9d594e8508f6f b29c0a999d91883 Capizzi, E., Hill, H., & Macey, D. (1976). FRETILIN and the struggle for independence in East Timor. Race and Class – Sage Journals, XVII(4), 17. Cheok, C. K., Lee, H. K., & Lee, P. P. (2013). Chinese overseas remittances to China: The perspective from Southeast Asia. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 43(1), 75–101. doi:10.1080/00472336.201 2.735918 Chew, D., & Huang, J. S. (2014). The Timorese Hakka in Australia: Community and the internet. Global Hakka Studies, 2, 301–336. d’Hooghe, I. (2007). The rise of China’s public diplomacy. The Hague, the Netherlands: Netherland ­Institute of International Relations – Clingendael. Ding, S. (2014). Chinese soft power and public diplomacy: An analysis of China’s new diaspora engagement policies in the Xi era. Bloomsburg: University of Pennsylvania.

328

People-to-people diplomacy in Timor-Leste Dunn, J. (2003). East Timor: A rough passage to independence (Third ed.). Double Bay, NSW: Longueville Books. Durand, F. B. (2016). History of Timor-Leste. Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books. Gonçalves, A. M. A. (2003). Macau, Timor and Portuguese India in the context of Portugal’s recent decolonization. In S. Llyod-Jones & A. C. Pinto (Eds.), The last empire: Thirty years of Portuguese decolonization (pp. 54–66). Bristol and Portland: Intellect Books. Gunn, G. C.(2010). Historical dictionary of East Timor. London: The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Gunn, G. C. (2016). The Timor-Macao sandalwood trade and the Asian discovery of the great South Land? Review of Culture, 53, 125–148. Guotu, Z., & Wangbo, W. (2010). Migration and trade: The role of Overseas Chinese in economic relations between China and Southeast Asia. International Journal of China Studies, 1(1), 174–193. Hays, J. (2012). Confucius Institute and spreading China abroad. Retrieved 17 February 2017, from http://factsanddetails.com/china/cat8/sub52/item2272.html Hoon, C.-Y. (2008). Chinese identity in Post-Suharto Indonesia. Culture, politics and media. Brighton, S­ ussex: Academic Press. Horta, L. (2011). US, China build Timor-Leste soft power. Retrieved 19 February 2017, fromwww. geopoliticalmonitor.com/us-china-build-timor-leste-soft-power-4339/ Koning, J., & Susanto, A. (2008). Chinese Indonesians and a transforming China: Apprehension, admiration, and ambiguity. Institute of China Studies Working Papers, 2. Kuala Lumpur, University of Malaya. Kwartanada, D. (2001). Middlemen minority in an isolated outpost: A preliminary study of the ­Chinese in East Timor to 1945. Retrieved 12 September 2015, from www.academia.edu/4772157/ Middlemen_Minority_in_an_Isolated_Outpost_A_Preliminary_Study_of_the_Chinese_in_ East_Timor_to_1945 La’o Hamutuk, (2013). LH protests contract award to CNI22. Retrieved from http://laohamutuk. blogspot.com/2013/10/lh-protests-contract-award-to-cni22.html Lee, J. (2016). The Chinese diaspora’s role in the rise of China. Retrieved 5 April 2017, from www. eastasiaforum.org/2016/09/14/the-chinese-diasporas-role-in-the-rise-of-china/ Liang, Z., & Morooka, H. (2004). Recent trends of emigration from China. International Migration, 42(3). Liping, X. (2011). China’s consular service reform and changes in diplomacy. In J. Mallissen & A. M. Fernandes (Eds.), Consular affairs and diplomacy. Leiden: Koninklijke Bril NV. Liu, H. (2005). New migrants and the revival of overseas Chinese nationalism. Journal of Contemporary China, 14(43), 291–316. Manurung, H., & Saudek, M. I. (2016). China public diplomacy in Asia Pacific. Retrieved 12 March 2017, from https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2821986 Matadalan ba Rai-Haburas. (2010). Community voices on the land: Results of the consultation by Matadalan ba Rai. Matadalan ba Rai–Haburas Foundation, UNDP, Trocaire and Oxfam. Nicol, B. (2002). Timor: A nation reborn. Jakarta: Equinox Publishing. Nye, J. S., Jr. (2004). Soft power and American foreign policy. Political Science Quarterly, 119(2), 255. Pieke, F. N., & Speelman, T. (2013). Chinese investment strategies and migration: Does diaspora matter? Report for the Migration Policy Centre, European University Institute, Florence. Leiden: Leiden University, The Netherlands. Pinto, P. J. d. S. (2014a). Traders, middlemen, smugglers: The Chinese and the formation of colonial Timor (18th–19th centuries). In J. V. Serrão, E. R. Bárbara Direito & S. M. Miranda (Eds.), Property rights, land and territory in the European overseas empires (pp. 267–277). Lisbon, Portugal: Cehc-Iul. Pinto P. J. d. S. (2014b). Visitors and settlers: Notes on Timor and the Chinese as cultural and economic brokers (Sixteenth to Nineteenth Centuries). Journal of Asian History, 48(2), 139–164. Ptak, R. (1987). The Transportation of Sandalwood from Timor to Macau and China during the Ming Dynasty. Review of Culture, 1(April-June), 31–39. Purdey, J. (2003). Reopening the asimilasi vs integrasi debate: Ethnic Chinese identity in post-Suharto Indonesia’. Asian Ethnicity, 4(3), 421–437. Shandong Hi-Speed Group Co., L. (2017). Vice-chairman of the NPC Standing Committee Zhang Ping Visited the East Timor Branch of International Cooperation Corporation [Press release]. Retrieved 18 July 2017, from http://www.sdhsg.com/en/page.jsp?id=7556 Simorangkir, E. (2017). BUMN RI dominasi pembangunan di Timor Leste. Retrieved 25 September 2017, from https://finance.detik.com/berita-ekonomi-bisnis/3650588/bumn-ri-dominasi-pembangunandi-timor-leste

329

Laurentina ‘mica’ Barreto Soares Siriphon, A. (2015). Xinyimin, new Chinese migrants, and the influence of the PRC and Taiwan on the Northern Thai border. In Y. Santasombat (Ed.), Impact of China’s rise on the Mekong River. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Smart, A., & Hsu, J.-Y. (2004). The Chinese diaspora, foreign investment and economic development in China. The Review of International Affairs, 3(4), 544–566. Tan, C.-B. (2013). Routledge handbook of the Chinese diaspora. Hoboken, NJ: Taylor and Francis. Telkamp, G. J. (1979). The economic structure of an outpost in the outer Islands in the Indonesian archipelago: Portuguese Timor 1850–1975. In P. Creutzberg (Ed.), Between people and statistics: Essays on modern Indonesian history (pp. 71–89). The Hague, the Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff. Thuno, M. (2007). Introduction: Beyond ‘Chinatown’: Contemporary Chinese migration. In M. Thuno (Ed.), Beyond Chinatown: New Chinese migration and the global expansion of China. Copenhagen, Denmark: NIAS. Timor-Leste Government. (2018). Day-Off on February 16, 2018 [Press release]. Retrieved 16 February 2018, from http://timor-leste.gov.tl/?p=19452&lang=en ——— (2014). Joint statement between the People’s Republic of China and The Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste on establishing comprehensive partnership of good-neighbourly friendship, mutual trust and mutual benefit [Press release]. Retrieved 15 February 2018, from http://timor-leste.gov. tl/?p=9967&lang=en Turner, S. (2003). Setting the scene speaking out: Chinese Indonesians after ­Suharto. Asian Ethnicity, 4(3). Wijaya, T. (2016, 3 April). Can overseas Chinese build China’s One Belt, One Road? Retrieved 4 April 2017, from www.eastasiaforum.org/2016/06/02/can-overseas-chinese-build-chinas-one-belt-one-road/ Wise, A. (2011). Exile and return among the East Timorese. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Xinhua Net. (2015). China willing to expand practical cooperation with Timor-Leste: NPC vice chairman. Retrieved 10 January 2016, from http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2015-04/01/c_134117343.htm

330

24 Performing and transforming citizenship amongst East Timorese in Indonesian West Timor1 Andrey Damaledo Introduction This chapter examines the activities, interactions and power relations amongst pro-­autonomy East Timorese who have elected to remain living in West Timor after the 1999 historic referendum. In particular, I am interested in the way they have been rebuilding and transforming their political activities through long-term engagement in the complex politics of migration, democratisation and citizenship. Studies on political activities amongst migrant communities show that institutions in the host country provide opportunities for migrants to channel their political interests. Scholars interpret the host institution as a ‘political opportunity structure’, which they define as a ‘consistent—but not necessarily formal, permanent, or national—­ signal to social or political actors which either encourages or discourages them to use their internal resources to form social movements’ (Tarrow 1996: 54). In Indonesia, citizens political activities tend to grow when the state political system provides avenues for the free expression of dissenting opinions (Bourchier and Hadiz 2003: 192; Beittinger-Lee 2009: 65). In this chapter, I explore the character of East Timorese political mobilisation, and the ways that Indonesian citizenship has been exercised in response. East Timorese in West Timor are often considered to be demanding and sometimes ungrateful and stubborn citizens because they never stopped demanding government assistance despite ongoing housing and livelihood projects delivered to them since their chaotic arrival in late 1999. I challenge this assumption by examining the dynamics of East Timorese civic engagement. To explain their changing nature of civic participation, I draw on Engin Isin’s idea of an ‘activist citizenship’ (2009: 380), which goes beyond participation in political processes to explicit engagement in resistance and oppositional work to create ‘a break, a rupture and a difference’. For East Timorese in West Timor, ‘making a break’ does not refer to secessionist activity or resistance movement against the nation state following the occupation period. Rather, it is directed to a separation of the past from a vision of future renewal. East Timorese in Indonesian West Timor have been widely recognised as state collaborators. Associations of pro-Indonesia supporters were formed and directed by the Indonesian military to demonstrate their allegiance to Indonesia during the occupation and referendum. 331

Andrey Damaledo

Upon their arrival in West Timor, however, they changed their political direction and mobilised a new agenda of struggle to make the state more accountable to its citizens and supporters. Many have said to me, ‘Our struggle continues but in a different direction now’. This changing narrative from state collaborators into challenging the state makes East Timorese political mobilisation distinctly potent. Once we view East Timorese’s ongoing demands for state responsibility as more than simply demands of stubborn citizens, we can consider citizenship practice in a new light. East Timorese confrontational character of public rallies and demonstrations becomes now not so much of interruption to service delivery but a catalyst for remedial policy and accountability. To explain this argument, let me begin with an overview of East Timorese in West Timor in order to shed light on their complex socio-political groupings. Following this section, I examine the notion of struggling citizens and the way East Timorese transform their rights as citizens after they migrated into West Timor, including their integration into Indonesian mainstream politics. I will then move on to explore East Timorese alliance with established Indonesian associations. The final part of the chapter discusses the continuity and change within East Timorese associations and how these associations changed our perspective of citizen activism.

Following East Timorese in West Timor By proximity, of all the Indonesian destinations to which East Timorese migrated following the violent reaction to the referendum, West Timor was a most attractive option. But the very fact that it became the ultimate place of exile for East Timorese who did not want to return spoke volumes about the appeal of this half-island region. It is important, however, to note that West Timor has never been a separate province or an autonomous political entity but has remained an integrated part of the composite province of East Nusa Tenggara (Nusa Tenggara Timur – NTT) that includes neighbouring islands of Flores and Sumba. The term West Timor (Timor Barat) itself has always been alien to the people of the region, nor a recognised reference or orientation for people from neighbouring islands such as Sumba, Alor, Flores or even the proximate islands of Rote, Savu or Semau. 2 West Timor is simply a new directional term to distinguish the Indonesian half of Timor from the eastern half of the island, now the Independent Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste. Administratively, West Timor is divided into one municipality and five districts. Kupang municipality is the capital of the province as well as the centre for regional trade and services. Kupang district is located in the hinterland of the capital. Further to the east is the district of South Central Timor (Timor Tengah Selatan – TTS) and North Central Timor (Timor Tengah Utara – TTU) which borders the East Timor enclave of Oecussi. The final two districts are Belu bordering the East Timorese mountain district of Bobonaro, and Malaka,3 which in turn borders the south coast district of Covalima in East Timor. In linguistic terms, West Timor is dominated by the Meto-speaking people who occupy much of the territory, whilst Tetun-speaking people are the majority population in the eastern border districts of Belu and Malaka districts.4 These border districts also accommodate groups of shared East Timorese speakers, Bunaq and Kemak people. A distinctive dialect of Indonesian known as Kupang Malay is spoken in the capital (Table 24.1). I have been dealing with East Timorese in West Timor since 2005, and I have been following different East Timorese into their camps and resettlements during my ethnographic fieldwork between October 2012 and October 2013 and my return to Kupang from J­anuary 332

Performing and transforming citizenship Table 24.1  Account of NTT and West Timor, 2016 Description

NTT

West Timor Kupang Kupang municipality district

Area (km 2) 47,931 Population 5,203,514 Male 2,577,953 Female 2,625,561 Population density 109 (per km 2) Number of districts 22 Number of 306 sub-districts Number of villages 3,314 and Kelurahan

TTS district

TTU district

Belu Malaka district district

180 402,286 206,129 196,157 2,232

5,526 360,228 184,314 175,914 105

3,947 461,681 227,877 233,804 97

2,670 247,216 122,209 125,007 98

1,249 210,307 105,187 105,120 100

1,161 183,387 88,709 94,678 94

– 6

– 24

– 32

– 24

– 12

– 12

51

177

278

193

81

127

Source: Badan Pusat Statistik NTT (2017).

2017 to February 2018. This exercise led me to recognise that East Timorese might well have had Indonesia as their destination when they evacuated East Timor following the referendum, but it would be a mistake to see them as a uniform community. East Timorese are not a homogenous grouping, whether economically, politically, socially, geographically, ideologically or, crucially, ethnically. In other words, examining the life of East Timorese is to recognise that they are not one but many. From their professional background, it has been estimated that more than 14,000 government employees and around 6,000 members of the military and police force with their core and extended families left East Timor. Around 4,500 government employees were part of the Indonesian Ministry of Home Affairs (Kemdagri) and decided to continue their career in various government agencies in NTT.5 Army personnel and police officers have also continued their service in various squads throughout NTT, and they have continued to draw salary and other benefits of continued employment within the Indonesian security forces. Over time they have also become eligible for pensions and retirement benefits under the Indonesian civil servant system. Apart from this formal sector, many East Timorese pursue subsistence livelihoods. Some still live in camps and survive working as sharecroppers on land owned by locals. From a political point of view, these people have been formerly associated with four political factions which formed as part of the pro-autonomy campaign strategy in 1999. They are the East Timor People’s Front (Barisan Rakyat Timor-Timur – BRTT), Forum for Unity, Democracy and Justice (Forum Persatuan, Demokrasi dan Keadilan – FPDK), Integration Struggle Fighter (Pasukan Pejuang Integrasi – PPI) and, latterly formed, Alliance of Sociopolitical Organisations Supporting Autonomy (Aliansi Orsospol Pendukung Otonomi). Many have now transformed themselves and continue their political ambitions through mainstream Indonesian political parties. From a geographical perspective, East Timorese who have decided to remain in West Timor came from all of the 13 districts in East Timor. They came in different waves by different modes of transportation. The current location of can be viewed as reversal mirror of the map of East Timor. People from the eastern parts of East Timor such as Baucau, Lautem 333

Map 24.1  E  ast Timorese ethnolinguistic groups in West Timor, 2016 Source: CartoGIS (College of Asia and the Pacific, Australian National University) with author’s analysis.

Map 24.2  Number and location of East Timorese in West Timor, 2016, by village and region Source: CartoGIS (College of Asia and the Pacific, Australian National University) with author’s estimates.

Andrey Damaledo

and Viqueque now reside in the far west because they joined the Indonesian air and sea evacuation efforts which conveyed them there. East Timorese from the central and border regions joined the land evacuation and currently reside in the borderland districts. Religiously, the great majority of East Timorese are Catholic. But there are around 500 Protestant East Timorese who built their own church in Silawan village on the international border; they are mostly the former congregation from Balibo. Apart from the Christians, there are also around 150 Muslims who have settled in Boneana on the western tip of Timor. East Timorese are diverse in their political, geographical and religious backgrounds, and, crucially do not belong to one single ethnic group. The Language Atlas of the Pacific Area, for instance, recognises 17 different languages in East Timor 6 and at least double that number of dialects. These different ethnolinguistic groups are currently dispersed around West Timor. The major ethnolinguistic groups from the far eastern part of East Timor, choose to reside in Kupang district whilst people from the western highlands of East Timor are concentrated in the central border region of Belu and Malaka Districts. To date, East Timorese have settled down in more than 100 villages across West Timor (see Map 24.1). The final point to add to the complexity of resettlement in West Timor is the numbers. On their arrival in 1999, the UN High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) estimated that 250,000 people had crossed over the border. As of December 31, 2002, the UNHCR officially declared the end of refugee status for East Timorese, and by May 2003, they claimed that a total of 225,000 people had returned to East Timor whilst just 25,000 East Timorese remained in the West. Later that year, for the purpose of the 2004 Indonesian general election, the ­Indonesian Department of Home Affairs conducted a census of the refugees and found that as many as 125,455 East Timorese remained in Indonesia with 117,616 living in NTT. In 2005, the Indonesian government announced the end of humanitarian and development assistance for East Timorese and conducted another census finding that 104,436 East Timorese were resident in the province with around 90% of them located in West Timor. Drawing on additional data, as of 2016 I estimate there to be more than 88,000 in West Timor (see Map 24.2).

Adopting political reform As the displaced East Timorese are growing in terms of demographics and residential sites, so do their political activities. Historically, their political activities in West Timor began as early as January 2000 when leaders of United Front for East Timor Autonomy (Front Persatuan Pendukung Otonomi – UNIF) gathered in Kupang for three days of contentious discussions— even causing the conference venue to be moved three times because of their numbers, the so-called biti bot Timoris congress (literally large woven mat of consensus) agreed to dissolve UNIF and its four foundational organisations. In response, UNIF members created a new organisation called Uni Timor Asuain or UNTAS. They formed U ­ NTAS to revitalise their political mobilisation that should have been finished by their lost in the referendum. The transformation of UNIF into UNTAS was arguably the most ambitious political project of the East Timorese pro-autonomy movement. Two striking features of the UNTAS manifesto distinguished it from previous East Timorese associations. First, its rejection of the result of the referendum clearly indicated that it was formed to deal with political issues both in the homeland (East Timor) and their host society (Indonesia) but also at an international level (United Nations). Second, it suggested that East Timorese who had previously supported Indonesia started to express dissenting opinions towards the state that had nurtured them. The Indonesian government, however, did not buy into UNTAS’ demands. Instead, former President Abdurrahman Wahid, during a visit to Dili, publicly acknowledged the 336

Performing and transforming citizenship

results of the referendum, a move that was followed by the Indonesian National Parliament’s formal recognition. The Indonesian military also dissolved vigilante groups that had been formed during the occupation and referendum, and all weapons were confiscated. Without the support of the Indonesian government, UNTAS political activism faded quickly and remained extant only until late 2000. The departure of UNTAS from the political stage resulted in the formation of a growing number of new East Timorese political associations.7 An attempt to crowd out these associations occurred in 2005 when the Indonesian government announced the end of humanitarian and development assistance for the displaced East Timorese.8 Yet, again, more associations emerged in response.9 Since 2000, more than ten East Timorese associations have formed in West Timor to represent their interests. Some were established to consolidate people from the same origin, whilst others pursued social welfare, human rights and social justice issues. But regardless of their seemingly fragmented relations, all associations acknowledged that they grew out of UNTAS. In 2010, members of the East Timorese younger generation manoeuvred to organise a congress to wrest the leadership of UNTAS from the older generation. The latter responded by reporting this plan to the police, deeming it to be illegal and asking the authorities to dissolve it. However, the congress went ahead and eventually elected a leader from the younger generation, signalling an end to the monopoly of authority by the older representatives. The first political mobilisation of the younger generation saw them reclaim the political mission of UNTAS and renew their focus on social and welfare issues affecting East Timorese. This contrasted with the agenda of the older generation who had viewed UNTAS as a place for East Timorese solidarity and communitarianism. Since 2010, East Timorese political mobilisation and demonstrations have always been represented by the younger generation of UNTAS. In late January 2013, I was invited to be an observer at the annual working assembly of UNTAS in Kupang. During his opening address, the notorious former militia leader, Eurico Guterres, then the chief of UNTAS, declared that ‘UNTAS (was) a house that united all East Timorese in Indonesia as one family’ and indicated that the UNTAS assembly was a symbolic representation of all East Timorese associations which had adapted and transformed their citizenship practice in contemporary Indonesia. In late January 2017, I attended the inauguration of UNTAS’ central committee in Kupang. Eurico Guterres retained his position as UNTAS top leader. However, I noted significant differences from the one I attended four years ago. More politicians from Indonesian mainstream political parties attended the event, including top Indonesian politicians from Jakarta. Eurico also changed his tone from an inward-looking plea for unity to an outward-looking appeal for more government attention on East Timorese civic engagement and struggles.

Integrating mainstream political parties For East Timorese, adapting and transforming their civic engagement in contemporary ­Indonesia meant integration into Indonesian mainstream politics. When I asked a senior East Timorese politician about this expression, he replied: Having an association like UNTAS is great but in order to make it effective we also have to become active members of Indonesian political parties and play the game of governance, decision making and resource allocation. By doing so we can sustain our struggle, and our voices and demands will be heard. 337

Andrey Damaledo

The process of mainstreaming politics began as early as mid-2003, leading up to the 2004 Indonesian general election. During this period, East Timorese politicians began to consolidate and mobilise their networks within Indonesian mainstream political parties. This tactic proved fruitful with one of their senior politicians, Armindo Mariano (Golongan Karya Party [GOLKAR]), elected to the NTT Provincial Parliament. This success led many East Timorese to undertake their own political manoeuvres. For example, Arnaldo Tavares, son of the former militia top leader Joao Tavares, chose to join President Yudhoyono’s Democratic Party. An East Timorese legal practitioner, Joao Meco, joined General Wiranto’s Hanura Party. Ali Atamimi, who was a representative from East Timor in Indonesia’s People Consultative Assembly (MPR) between 1997 and 1999, maintained his allegiance to the Islamic Party of United Development (Partai ­Persatuan Pembangunan – PPP). A surprising decision was made by Eurico Guterres to join another quasi-Islamic party, the National Mandate Party (Partai Amanat Nasional – PAN). Another significant change occurred in early 2009 when Prabowo Subianto, who is regarded by many East Timorese as their comrade due to his military service in East Timor, formed the Great Indonesian Movement Party (Gerakan Indonesia Raya – GERINDRA) as his political machine to run for the Indonesian presidency. Many East Timorese acknowledged a narrative of shared comradeship struggle with Prabowo which led them to join GERINDRA. Armindo Mariano, for example, resigned from Golkar and aligned with GERINDRA, securing the position of secretary of the party in NTT Province (Figure 24.1).

Figure 24.1  A  rnaldo Tavares’ campaign poster for the Provincial Parliament from Democratic Party

338

Performing and transforming citizenship

Struggling citizens In addition to their involvement in mainstream political parties, East Timorese have always been active in their own political rallies. Since early 2000, various East Timorese associations have organised rallies and demonstrations to challenge the way that the Indonesian government delivered services to them. These public demonstrations have become part of their life in West Timor. To attract media attention, they always seek to stage their rallies in prominent government spaces such as parliamentary buildings or the office of the governor and/ or head of district (bupati). If a rally targets a specific government agency—whose service provision is the subject of protest—dramatic action may be performed, such as chaining the gate, blocking the entrance and shutting down the activities of that office. In other rallies, some groups performed a theatrical war dance. Perhaps the largest rallies ever performed took place in Atambua (Belu) during 2006 in response to the allocation of compensation funds managed by the Indonesian Department of Social Affairs. According to the policy, each East Timorese household would receive a total of IDR4 million (approximately AUD400) to support their livelihoods in West Timor. In Belu district, it was reported that only 1,500 East Timorese households were entitled to this allocation. The majority of the East Timorese population in the district perceived this to be discriminatory, as the total number of households far exceeded the figure, and in their view, all deserved compensation. Protest rallies were subsequently organised, and a census was conducted to provide precise information about the number of resident East Timorese households. Finally, after nearly a year of rallies that culminated in the destruction of the house of parliament in Belu and detention of three East Timorese, the Indonesian government agreed to meet their demands. But they insisted that no additional budget allocation would be made. As a result, instead of receiving IDR4 million as promised, each East ­ Timorese household in Belu district received just IDR503,000 (AUD50). As one activist recalled, ‘The amount was pitiful considering what we had done, including spending time in prison, but it was a worthy cause. We have shown that East Timorese are here and that our struggle continues’. Following the large rallies in Atambua, smaller scale protests were held on a regular basis around West Timor until 2012 when the then President of Indonesia, Yudhoyono issued a presidential directive to provide housing for East Timorese in West Timor. To make this programme more inclusive and consistent with mainstream Indonesian policy, East Timorese were classified as people with low incomes (Masyarakat Berpenghasilan Rendah – MBR) and therefore eligible for public housing. The Indonesian minister for public housing was assigned leadership of the project and Atambua was chosen as the place where the project would be launched. But like many former housing projects, the quality of construction was poor and various East Timorese groups rejected their housing allocations and launched a strike to ‘remain in camp’. One East Timorese elder who helped organise the strike in Atambua told me that The government said these houses were broken because we left them empty. We did not want to argue with them so we invited them to come to the location and see for themselves. We ushered them into one of the houses that had just been completed. Once they were all inside and observing the rooms, we went outside and pushed the wall. The thin concrete walls immediately cracked and shook. Noticing that the house seemed to be on the verge of collapsing, the officers rushed outside.

339

Andrey Damaledo

Imitating the look of those scared and outraged officers, the elder further explained that they had not intended to treat the officers badly, they were simply trying to demonstrate the problem. East Timorese groups in neighbouring TTU also responded negatively to the housing project and organised rallies around the office of the bupati. They demanded the local government pursue an inclusive social policy and treat them with respect. In Kupang district, different forms of protest were organised by East Timorese groups in the village of Naibonat. They refused to participate in the registration census and be included in the programme. This renewed struggle finally reached the office of the Indonesian Commission on ­Human Rights (Komnas HAM) in Jakarta and a team was sent to West Timor to investigate. After visiting some of the housing project sites and talking to East Timorese in Belu and TTU districts, in October 2013 they confirmed that the housing was sub-standard.10 Then after a lengthy standoff, in early 2014 the Indonesian public prosecutor was called upon to investigate allegations of corruption against the project contractors. Officials from the Ministry of Housing and local government, together with the managing contractors, were charged with corruption in the special Indonesian court and a number were found guilty and sentenced to prison. The investigation was then expanded to cover all districts in NTT Province and, at the time of writing, other alleged offenders were still waiting to appear in court. Many East Timorese expressed satisfaction that their struggles had eventually paid off. They were pleased that their efforts resonated across district boundaries and influenced other people in NTT Province. They have also demonstrated that corrupt officials who seek to gain from their displacement and suffering will be brought to justice. The cases have illustrated that East Timorese in West Timor are not simply ‘active citizens’ who participate in civic life by casting their votes, paying taxes, and so on. Rather, they are ‘activist citizens’ who are prepared to challenge the state’s authority and demand that it be more responsive and accountable for its actions. In this sense, East Timorese have transformed themselves from the agents of the state into the champions of their own communities, and, in this role, they are prepared to act in the interests of their fellow citizens. The transformation demonstrates that East Timorese political mobilisation in West Timor is not simply about serving their own agendas and securing compensation from the state. Their demands for state accountability confirm that they are also playing a new role in demonstrating a willingness to embrace and support the Indonesian democratic reform agenda.

Alliances with established associations East Timorese struggles and political mobilisation have so far been influential because they have managed to form alliances with established associations in West Timor. The United Heart of Timorese (Persehatian Orang Timor – POT) is one such prominent organisation. This is the largest association formed initially to accommodate and represent local Meto-speaking West Timorese in NTT Province. But East Timorese who have been members of this association since its early formation denounce the claim that POT is exclusively Meto. They argue that POT is an organisation for all Timorese regardless of their ethnolinguistic background and with East Timorese support, some leaders of this association have been elected to office at the district and provincial levels. Some East Timorese are also involved in Indonesian philanthropic organisations. The Wadah Foundation, a philanthropic group set up by Indonesian billionaire, Hashim ­Djojohadikusumo, supports the active involvement of East Timorese. Recently the foundation provided solar panels and a water pipeline for East Timorese groups in TTS district.11 340

Performing and transforming citizenship

East Timorese are also active members of the Indonesian Farmers’ Union and Indonesian Veterans’ Association. But perhaps the most important alliance they have formed so far is with the Indonesian Retired Army and Police Association (Persatuan Pensiunan dan Warakuri TNI dan Polri – PEPABRI). By virtue of their enduring sense of comradeship and shared military operations experience, the association keeps alive relations between East Timorese and former Indonesian army generals (and some active generals) who served in East Timor during the occupation. This relationship is a crucial political alliance considering that most of these retired generals remain key players in contemporary Indonesian politics. Religious-based organisations comprise another set of alignments. Many East ­Timorese are active members of the Indonesian Interreligious Communication Forum (Forum ­Komunikasi Antar Umat Beragama). They are often appointed to represent members of the Catholic Church in their respective districts and this is crucial because the forum is a nation-wide organisation with offices at provincial and district levels. With such a well-­ established institutional structure and broad membership, leading members of this forum have a direct channel to political leaders such as the governor, or bupati,12 and therefore direct access to key decision makers. Muslim East Timorese are also active in established Islamic groups in West Timor. Some mosques around East Timorese resettlement areas like those in Boneana and Raknamo village in Kupang district were built as a result of these associations. Other alliance that is beneficial to East Timorese involves human rights groups and grassroots activists in West Timor. Although few East Timorese are active members, these organisations have promoted East Timorese displacement as a human rights issue in West Timor and therefore represent an active voice promoting their interests. A final association relates to East Timorese involvement with a local disaster management group. West Timor has long been known for its severe droughts and frequent floods and a multi-stakeholder group has been formed to act in response to these events. Some East Timorese have become focal points for their respective districts in support of this group which is linked to national and global climate change and disaster risk reduction programmes. Members have their mobile phone numbers registered as part of an early warning system. As part of the system, East Timorese are able to report their situation to the emergency response agencies whenever destructive events occur. This diverse and multilayered participation demonstrates that associations play an important role in East Timorese social life and the practice of citizenship in Indonesian Timor. They have formed their own associations to express their views and interests, but they make those views and interests more relevant and powerful by building coalitions with established organisations.13 Their voices have also amplified when they pursue causes that matter to the wider society. Instead of seeking financial compensation for their displacement and suffering, East Timorese have sought to broaden their impact as citizens by engaging in diverse issues such as human rights, climate change, anti-corruption and religious plurality and tolerance.

Conclusion: changing perspectives on citizen activism After nearly two decades, East Timorese in West Timor have shown that associations play a pivotal role in fostering political involvement and civic virtues.14 East Timorese formed their associations not simply to generate social capital and effective adaptation. They are also driven by the continued transmission and transformation of political mobilisation to claim their due rights as Indonesian citizens. This is exemplified in their successful effort to send their representatives for the local parliament in three consecutive elections in West Timor. Currently, an East Timorese is running as a vice district head (wakil bupati) for the 2018 341

Andrey Damaledo

Kupang district Head Election (Pilkada). In spite of this seemingly unified effort, I met many East Timorese elders who were frustrated of their fragmented politics that undermine a unity of purpose. One elder told me that ‘if you look at our growing population, we could actually win more seats if only we were united’. In a similar vein, another elder explained that if we look at the ballot paper, we’ll always find East Timorese candidates in all the parties. We tried to advise them to unite our voice but nobody listened. How could we elect more [East Timorese] representatives if we always campaign against each other? Indeed, in the 2009 general election, most of the political parties had East Timorese candidates in their teams. This dispersion has proven to be successful with three East Timorese politicians elected to the Belu District Parliament, one representative elected to the Kupang District Parliament and another candidate to the NTT Provincial Parliament.15 This division continued into 2014 general election with similar results. There were three East Timorese representatives elected to the Belu District Parliament and one to the Kupang District Parliament. They also successfully elected two of their representatives into the NTT Provincial Parliament the 2014 election.16 Since 2009, many East Timorese have also run from the same electorates for the National Parliament, only to come up with the same results that nobody got enough votes to represent them in Jakarta.17 East Timorese successful participation in three consecutive elections in Indonesian West Timor has shown that they have the capacity to adapt, reproduce and expand in the new socio-political settings. However, their endless in-fighting and tendency for fission have led to a stagnation of their political ambition. In spite of the ongoing division, the idea of the ‘struggling’ citizens deserving of government support emerged to take East Timorese citizenship practice in a new direction. Having operated as state agents during the violent conflict in East Timor, they are now becoming agents of their own communities by seeking accountability from the Indonesian government. From their initial mobilisation for compensation, East Timorese associations in Indonesia have progressively expanded and diversified their activism into larger issues on the national and international stage. This demonstrates that East Timorese in West Timor have been more politically active than when they were in East Timor. This also suggests that East Timorese are not passive recipients of government policies or programme interventions. More importantly, it shows how the majority of East Timorese in West Timor have reconciled with their confrontational past and are moving on with dignity in Indonesia.

Notes 1 This chapter is rewritten from chapters that first appeared in Divided Loyalties: Displacement, belonging and citizenship among the East Timorese in West Timor, ANU Press (2018), doi:10.22459/ DL.09.2018. Maps 24.1–24.2 have been produced by CartoGIS Services, ANU College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University. 2 People simply refer to it as Timor instead of West Timor. 3 Malaka is a newly constituted district carved out of Belu. The term Pemekaran (lit. blossoming) is used to describe the formation of a new autonomous administrative and budgetary territory in Indonesia. Whilst the formation of new administrative units within Indonesia has taken place from the early years of the republic, this process increased rapidly after the implementation of Regional Autonomy Law number 22/1999 and the Government Regulation (PP) number 129/2000. In 2004, a revised Decentralisation Law number 32 was enacted and in the ensuing years the government reviewed their regulation and introduced PP 38/2007 which presently serve as the key regulations to justify the formation of new territorial administration. In 1999, NTT comprised

342

Performing and transforming citizenship 13 districts and municipalities. In 2013, Malaka district was officially established and its formation added to a total of 21 districts and one municipality in the province. 4 The region also accommodates Bunaq- and Kemak-speaking groups who migrated from East Timor in previous periods of disruption and turmoil. 5 Their decision to transfer to the Indonesian civil service in Kupang protected and ensured their service benefits, salaries and importantly their pension entitlements. 6 See Wurm and Hattori 1981 cited in Fox (2003: 6). 7 In subsequent years, various new groups emerged to represent the voice of East Timorese in West Timor, such as The National Committee of East Timor Political Victims (Komite Nasional Korban Politik Timor Timur – KOKPIT); The Indonesian Defenders Front (Front Pembela Bangsa I­ ndonesia – FPBI); The Red and White Defenders Front (Front Pembela Merah Putih) and the Union of Displaced East Timorese (Persatuan Pengungsi Timor Timor). These associations, however, did not have clear associational platforms and faded away as time went by. Only KOKPIT remains active. 8 ‘Crowd out’ theory argues that state intervention acts in opposition to community organisations and consequently works to undermine it. See Bloemraad (2005), Caponio (2005) and Hooghe (2005). 9 The following year, various associations including The Atsabe Family Union (Hikbat/Himpunan Keluarga Atsabe) The Association for the Protection of Indonesian Timorese Community (Lembaga Perlindungan Masyarakat Timor Indonesia –LPMTI), The Forum for the Defenders of Justice (Forum Pembela Keadilan– FPK), The Baucau Indonesia Community Union (Persehatian Oan Timor Baucau Indonesia –POTIBI) and the Humanitarian Forum emerged to represent East Timorese people in West Timor. 10 Kompas Online, 23 October 2013. 11 Wadah is significant because of its link to one of Indonesia’s largest political parties, GERINDRA, and its chief patron and former Indonesian presidential candidate, Prabowo Subianto. 12 East Timorese in Naibonat village of Kupang district, for instance, used the Forum to approach the local bupati in their attempt to secure land for their church. 13 For comparison, see Putnam (2000: 338), Wise (2006: 72) and Reed-Danahay and Brettell (2008). 14 For a broader discussion on migrants association, see Bloemraad (2006: 162), Rex (1987: 10), ­Hamidi (2003: 318–319), Korac (2009: 33) and Wise (2006: 76–77). 15 Armindo Mariano was re-elected to the provincial parliament. At the district level, Mauricio Freitas was elected to the Kupang District Parliament. In Belu district, Arnaldo Tavares (Demokrat), Ali Atamimi (PPP) and Antonio dos Santos (Partai Kedaulatan Bangsa Indonesia – PKBI) were elected. 16 In Belu district, three East Timorese were elected: Agustinho Pinto, Fernando Pareira (­GER­INDRA) and Manuel da Consecaio (PPP). In Kupang district, Tome da Silva (GERINDRA) was elected. In August 2016, Edjido Manek (GERINDRA) was appointed to office in Malaka district, replacing a West Timorese representative who run for the bupati. At the provincial level, Armindo Mariano, who has controlled the East Timorese electorate in Belu and TTU districts for a decade, was defeated by Angelo da Costa, Eurico’s assistant from PAN. Another East Timorese elected to the provincial parliament was Antonio Soares, a son of the former Governor Abilio Soares, who stood for GERINDRA. In January 2017, Antonio resigned from his political activities after being caught by the Indonesian Police Force for his use of drugs. A West Timorese replaced him at the Parliament. 17 In 2014, Eurico Guterres from PAN was challenged by Mario Vieira and Octavio Soares (from GERINDRA) with the result that none were elected. After more than a decade and having served two terms as their chief in NTT, Eurico resigned from PAN in October 2017.

References Badan Pusat Statistik. (2017). NTT Dalam Angka 2017 (NTT in Figures 2017). Kupang: Badan Pusat Statistik Provinsi NTT. Beittinger-Lee, V. (2009). (Un)civil Society and Political Change in Indonesia: A Contested Arena. London: Routledge. Bloemraad, I. (2005). ‘The Limits of de Tocqueville: How Government Facilitates Organisational Capacity in Newcomer Communities’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 31(5): 865–887. Bloemraad, I. (2006). Becoming a Citizen: Incorporating Immigrants and Refugees in the United States and Canada. Berkeley: University of California Press.

343

Andrey Damaledo Bourchier, D. and V. Hadiz. (2003). Indonesian Politics and Society: A Reader. London: Routledge Curzon. Caponio, T. (2005). ‘Policy Networks and Immigrants’ Associations in Italy: The Cases of Milan, Bologna and Naples’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 31(5): 931–950. Fox, J. (2003). ‘Tracing the Path, Recounting the Past: Historical Perspectives on Timor’, In Out of the Ashes: Destruction and Reconstruction of East Timor, J. Fox and D. Soares (eds), pp. 1–27. Canberra: ANU E Press. Hamidi, C. (2003). ‘Voluntary Associations of Migrants and Politics: The Case of North African Immigrants in France’, Immigrants and Minorities, 22(2–3): 317–332. Hooghe, M. (2005). ‘Ethnic Organisations and Social Movement Theory: The Political Opportunity Structure for Ethnic Mobilisation in Flanders’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 31(5): 975–990. Isin, E. (2009). ‘Citizenship in Flux: The Figure of the Activist Citizen’, Subjectivity, 29: 367–388. Kompas Online. (2013). ‘Komnas HAM Janji Selesaikan Masalah Warga EksTimtim’ (The National Commission for Human Rights Promised to Solve Issues of East Timorese), Available at http:// regional.kompas.com/read/2013/10/23/1532453/Komnas.HAM.Janji.Selesaikan.Masalah.Warga. Eks.Timtim?utm_campaign=related&utm_medium=bp-kompas&utm_source=news (accessed 28 November 2017). Korac, M. (2009). Remaking Home: Reconstructing Life, Place and Identity in Rome and Amsterdam. New York: Berghahn Books. Putnam, R. (2000). Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. New York: Simon and Schuster. Reed-Danahay, D. and C. Brettell. (2008). ‘Introduction’, In Citizenship, Political Engagement, and Belonging: Immigrants in Europe and the United States, D. Reed-Danahay and C. Brettell (eds). New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Rex, J. (1987). ‘Introduction: The Scope of a Comparative Study’, In Immigrant Associations in Europe, J. Rex, D. Joly, and C. Wilpert (eds), pp. 1–10. Aldershot: Gower. Tarrow, S. (1996). ‘States and Opportunities’, In Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements, D. McAdam, J. McCarthy, and M. Zald (eds), pp. 41–61. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wise, A. (2006). Exile and Return among the East Timorese. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

344

GLOSSARY

ADB Asian Development Bank AJAD  Assosiasaun Joventude Apoiu Dezinvolvimentu – Association of Youth for ­Development Assistance AMKV Asosiasaun Mane Kontra Violensia – Men’s Association Against Violence AMP Aliança da Maioria Parlamentar – Parliamentary Majority Alliance ANPM National Petroleum and Minerals Authority ASDT  Associação Social Democrática Timor – Timorese Social Democratic Association ASEAN Association of Southeast Asian Nations BGK Bloku Governu Koligasaun – Government Coalition Bloc CAQR  Comissão para os Assuntos dos Quadros da Resistência – Commission for issues of the Cadres of Resistance CAVR  Comissão de Acolhimento, Verdade e Reconciliação de Timor-Leste – ­Timor-Leste Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation CAVF  Comissão para os Assuntos dos Veteranos dos FALINTIL – Commission for the Issues of FALINTIL Veterans CCPPNR China Council for the Promotion Peaceful National Reunification CHSRR  Comissão de Homenagem, Supervisão do Registo e Recursos – Commission for Homage, Supervision of Registration, and Appeals CMATS Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea CNE Comissão Nacional de Eleições – National Commission for Elections. CNRM Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere – National Council for Maubere Resistance CNRT(1)  Conselho Nacional da Resistência Timorense; National Council of Timorese Resistance (in existence from 1998 to 2001) CNRT (2)  Congresso Nacional para a Reconstrução de Timor-Leste; National Congress for the Reconstruction of Timor-Leste (Political Party 2007) CPD-RDTL  Conselho Popular pela Defesa de República Democrática de Timor Leste – ­Popular Council for the Defense of the Democratic Republic of East Timor CPLP  Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa – Community of Portuguese ­Language Countries

345

Glossary

CRM Conselho Revolucionária Maubere – Maubere Revolutionary Council CSO Civil Society Organisations CTF Commission of Truth and Friendship DDR Disarmament, Demobilisation, Reintegration DPA Department of Political Affairs DPKO Department of Peace Keeping Operations EITI Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative ESI Estimated Sustainable Income FALINTIL  Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste – Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor FDI Foreign Direct Investment F-FDTL Forças de Defesa de Timor-Leste – Defense Force of Timor-Leste Força 20-20 20-20 Force, referring to veterans mobilized to ‘defend’ the state in 2006 FRAP FALINTIL Reinsertion Assistance Programme FRETILIN  Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente – Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor GBV Gender-Based Violence GDP Gross Domestic Product HDI Human Development Index ICG International Crisis Group ICJ International Court of Justice IDPs Internally Displaced Persons or Internally Displaced People IKS Ikatan Kera Sakti – Bond of the Sacred Monkey– Martial Arts INTERFET International Force for East Timor IOM International Organisation for Migration JPDA Joint Petroleum Development Area KHUNTO  Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan – Enriching the National Unity of the Sons/Daughters of Timor KRAM Komisaun Reguladora Artes Marsiais – Commission for the Regulation of Martial Arts KORK Kmanek Oan Rai Klaran – Wise Children of the Land – Martial Arts MAG Martial Arts Groups MAT Missão Antropológica de Timor – Timor Anthropological Mission MDG Millennium Development Goals MoF Ministry of Finance MTCR Ministry of Labour and Community Re-insertion MSS Ministério da Solidariedade Social – Ministry of Social Solidarity NDS National Demographic and Health Service NGO Non-governmental Organisation NLC National Liberation Combatant OCHA Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs OPMT  Organizacao Popular de Mulher Timor – Popular Organisation of East T ­ imorese Women PD Partido Democrático – Democratic Party PF Petroleum Fund PIF Pacific Islands Forum PLP Partido Libertasaun Popular – People’s Liberation Party PNTL Polícia Nacional de Timor-Leste – National Police of Timor-Leste 346

Glossary

PSD Partido Social Democrata – Social Democratic Party PSHT Persaudaraan Setia Hati Terate – Faithful Brotherhood of the Lotus RAOEA  Região Administrativa Especial de Oé-Cusse Ambeno – Special Administrative Zone of Oecusse Ambeno RDTL República Democrática de Timor-Leste – Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste SDG Sustainable Development Goals SRSG Special Representative of the Secretary General SWOT Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats TAC Treaty of Amity and Cooperation UK United Kingdom (of Great Britain) UN United Nations UNCLOS UN Convention on the Law of the Sea UNDP UN Development Programme UNESCO UN Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization UNHCR UN High Commissioner for Refugees UNICEF UN International Children’s Fund UNIFEM UN Development Fund for Women UNMIT UN Mission in Timor-Leste UNTAET UN Transitional Administration in East Timor USAID US Agency for International Development WHO World Health Organization ZEESM Zona Espesial Ekonomia Sosial Merkadu – Special Economic Zone for Social Market Economy

347

Index

Note: page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to end notes. Abrantes, Laura Soares 231 accessible mental health care 168–70 adminstration, public transfers 127–8 agricultural production and processing 104 Alkatiri, Mari 2, 29, 36, 47–8, 56, 67–8, 116 Alliance for Change and Progress (AMP) 2, 4, 37–9, 40–2, 47, 51, 52, 55, 57, 125, 127, 130 Alliance of Sociopolitical Organisations Supporting Autonomy 333 de Almeida, António 272 allowances for the elderly and disabled 127 Alvarez, Michael 18 Alves, Fernandes 231 Alves do Rego, Manuel Justino “Bosco” 264–8 do Amaral, Francisco Xavier 24, 41–3, 82 Amaral, Tony 258, 266 Amorim, João 70n1 ancestorship 241–2; differentiation and origin narratives 242–50; mortuary rituals 245–6; paths to infinity 250–2 ANPM (National Petroleum and Minerals Authority) 91, 95–7 Anuno, Jose 114, 115 Araújo, Rui Maria. de 3, 30, 35, 41, 43, 52, 53, 79, 132, 322 archaeological research 271–5; cultural heritage 277–8; ETAP (East Timor Archaeological Project) 274; historical knowledge 275–7; promotion 275–7 Arte Moris 259, 262–4, 266 ASEAN 11, 303–11 Associacão Popular Democratica Timorense 76

Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) 11, 303–11 Australia; maritime delimitation between 294–5; maritime-boundary determination 3 Bano, Arsenio 112–15, 120, 122n2 Barisan Rakyat Timor-Timur (BRTT) 333 Barlake 217, 221, 222, 228, 252, 254n4 Barnes, Susana 7, 8, 28, 152, 158, 162, 165, 175 Bayo, Ogunrotifa Ayodeji 323 Bayu-Undan oil field 87, 88, 91, 94, 95, 124, 130, 287, 291, 294 belligerent democracies 3–4, 30, 31 Belo, Carlos 304 Belo, Ximenes 28 Bexley, Angie 5, 48–9, 56 Bloku Governu Koligasaun 2, 125 Blondel, Jean 28 Bolsa de Mãe (‘Mother’s Purse’) programme 127–8 Bosco, Manuel Justino 258, 264, 266, 269 boundaries. see international limits and boundaries Boundary Treaty of 2018 95 Bovensiepen, Judith 215, 243–4, 246 Boye, Bobby 93–4 Brexit 136–45 BRTT (Barisan Rakyat Timor-Timur) 333 Bühler, Alfred 271 Camara, Joao 304–5 Carnation Revolution 48, 76, 326n7 Carrascalão, Gabriela 258 Carrascalão, Mario 41

349

Index Castro, Fidalgo 219–20 Castro, Pena 219–20 Catholic 17, 60, 230, 232, 260; Catholicism 17, 60–62, 65–69, 81 CAVR (Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor) 179–80 Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea (CMATS) Treaty 3 Cheibub, José Cheibub 18 Chenguo Qin 327n15 child malnutrition 103, 112 China: economic activities and positive implications 322–3; overseas migration to Timor-Leste 315–18; overseas public diplomacy 318–19; people-to-people diplomacy 314–15, 323–5; political diplomacy for unification 320–1; promoting economic interests 321–2; promoting revival of culture 319–20; soft power 314–15, 323–5 Chopra, Jarat 21 Church and State 61 Cinatti, Ruy 272 citizenship 331–2; activism 341–2; boundaries 192–3; East Timorese in West Timor 332–6; marginalized 339–40; political reforms 336–7 CMATS (Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea) Treaty 3, 289–92 CNRT (National Congress of the Timorese Reconstruction) 2–3, 17, 22, 47, 50 coercion 5, 24, 36, 41–3, 314 cohabitation 4, 5, 12, 27, 31, 60, 61, 66–70 Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor (CAVR) 179–80 competing development scenarios 55–7 competing nations-of-intent 75–7 Comunidade dos Países de Lingua Portuguesa 10 Conceição, António 30 Confucius Institute 326n13 Conselho dos Katuas 50 Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere 17, 76–7 Conselho Popular pela Defesa de República Democrática de Timor-Leste, CPD-RDTL 42 consensus politics 2, 30, 51–3, 79, 82 Constant, Benjamin 28 constraint as ruling strategy 36 corruption as ruling strategy 36 cosmology of gender 227 da Costa, Zacarias 308 Council for the Delimitation of Maritime Boundaries 3 CPD-RDTL (Conselho Popular pela Defesa de República Democrática de Timor-Leste) 42 crime and violence 90 Cruz Joven 67–9 cultural genocide 77

cultural impacts 9–10 culturally competent mental health care 168–70 Cummins, Deborah 29 customary marriage practices 213–19, 223; expenses 219–21; gift-functions 217; gift exchanges 221–2, 223–4n1 customary religious healers and healing practices, mental healthcare 166–8 Dahl, Robert 18 Damaledo, Andrey 11 Danabere, Iliwatu 258, 263 Decree Law of 2005 116 delimitation and demarcation 287–8 democracy: grassroots 28–30; prospects for 19–21 Desluto Nacional 79, 80, 82 differentiation and origin narratives 242–50 Dionísio, Babo 30 displacement 61 Dos Santos Monteiro, Carmeneza 6–7, 139 draft laws, special enclave 114–16 Duverger, Maurice 27 Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste, 1999–2012 32n1 East Timor Archaeological Project (ETAP) 274 East Timor National Mental Health Project (ETNMHP) 170n4 economic development 5–7 Economist Index, The 18 Economist Intelligence Unit’s Index of Democracy, The 18 economy: diversification 89; employment 101; exhaustion of non-renewable wealth 89–96; external balance of payments 102; frivolous spending 89–90; future 104–5; GDP (gross domestic product) 100–2; macroeconomics 90; oil and gas prices 88; petroleum revenue flow 92; resource revenues 125; violence and crime 90 EEZ (Exclusive Economic Zone) 288, 289, 294, 296, 297 elections, legitimacy 43 electoral participation 23–6 Elgie, Robert 26 employment 6, 39, 100, 101, 103, 104, 120, 138, 140, 141, 143, 144, 268, 333 Enloe, Cynthia H. 231–2, 234 Enrich the National Unity of the Sons of Timor-Leste 47 ESI (Estimated Sustainable Income) 91 Estimated Sustainable Income benchmark for withdrawals, Petroleum Fund 38 Estimated Sustainable Income (ESI) 91 ETNMHP (East Timor National Mental Health Project) 170n4

350

Index ETTI (Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative) 91 Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) 288 expenditures, state 96–100 expenses, marriage practices 219–21 experimentum humanum 18 exploration, oil 94–6 external balance of payments 102 extinction 208n1 Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative (EITI) 91

geração foun 46, 48, 49, 51–3, 83 gift and commodity exchanges, marriage practices 221–2 gift-functions, marriage stages 217 Global Hunger Index 124 Glover, Ian 273 Gonçalves, Kathleen 317, 326n10, 327n16 Government Coalition Bloc 2, 78 governmental systems 26 Gramsci, Antonio 36 grassroots democracy 28–30 Greater Sunrise oil field 3, 12, 88, 89, 94, 100, 124, 286, 291, 294, 295, 298, 299 Grenfell, Damian 117, 121n8 Grimm, Sonja 20–1 Gusmão, Xanana 2–4, 17, 24–5, 27–31, 32n4, 49–50, 63–4, 72, 78–9, 80, 126, 188, 206, 305; ruling strategy 35–43 Guterres, Francisco ‘Lú Olo’ 3–4, 52 Guttman, Matthew C. 232

FALINTIL (Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste) 47 Fataluku diasporas 137–8 FDTL (Forças de Defesa de Timor-Leste) 78 Feijó, Rui da Garca 4, 26–30, 35, 60–1, 236n1, 241 Feto, Rede 231 F-FDTL (Forças de Defesa de Timor-Leste) 37 Firaku (easterners) 78 First Aid 266–8 Força 20-20 37–8 Forças de Defesa de Timor-Leste (F-FDTL) 37, 78 Fortes, Meyer 252–3 Forum Persatuan, Demokrasi dan Keadilan (FPDK) 333 Foucault, Michele 156 Foun, Geração 262 FPDK (Forum Persatuan, Demokrasi dan Keadilan) 333 Freedom House 18 FRETILIN (Frente Revolucionária de TimorLeste Independente) 2–3, 17, 22, 25, 35, 47, 125 FRETILIN-PD 53 Freye, Gilberto 229 frivolous spending 89–90 Fundasaun Mahein 185 Fundo Petrolifero 5

Habibie, B.J. 304 Habibie Centre 310 Hamutuk Hari’i Futuru 150, 180 Hamutuk Hari’i Uma 7, 149–51, 153, 158 hardships, marriage practices 219 Hauss, Marcel 218 HDI (Human Development Index) 103, 124 healing practices, mental healthcare 166–8 health-seeking behaviours, mental healthcare 164–6 Hicks, David 5, 9, 12, 63–4, 67–8, 158, 165, 245–6 hierarchical structure, MAGs (martial arts groups) 202–3 Hirschman, Albert O. 19 Hobsbawm, Eric 257, 269 Hohe, Tanja 29, 228 Holthouse, Kym 117, 121n8 Human Development Index (HDI) 103, 124 human resources, investment 104

Galbraith, Peter 22 Gama, Paulino ‘Mauk Moruk’ 42 gas and oil prices 88 Gastão, Salsinha 44n8 GDP (gross domestic product) 100–2 gender relations 226–7; cosmology of gender 227; gendered effects of Indonesian occupation 230–1; gendered effects of Portuguese colonial culture 229–30; gendered political economy 232; gendered violence 234–6; militarized legacy 232–4; political organisation 227–8; social organisation 228–9 gendered political economy 232 gendered violence 226, 234–6 generasi supermi 49

I Give Sweetness, I Receive Bitterness 231 IDPs (internally displaced people) 174 IKS (Ikatan Kera Sakti) 198–9 imported goods 101 independent presidents 26–8 Indonesia 320–4, 333, 336–342; maritime delimitation between 295–8; New Order 48 Indonesian occupation 1, 174–7; gendered effects 230–1; Internal displacement 175–6 infrastructure projects, analysis 105 ‘Integração dos ex-militares na vida civil’ decree 44n5 integrated mental health care 168–70 Internal displacement 174–5, 182–3; displacement and resettlement in Simpang and Mulia 176–8;

351

Index Indonesian occupation 175–6; national response 179–80; solutions 180–2 internally displaced people (IPDs) 37, 174 international limits and boundaries 285–6, 298–9; amity 304–8; ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) 303–11; delimitation and demarcation 287–8; enmity 303–4; maritime delimitation between Australia 294–5; maritime delimitation between Indonesia 295–8; maritime jurisdiction 288; previous maritime agreements 289–92; territorial and maritime extent 286–7 IPDs (internally displaced people) 37 Jayakumar, S. 305 Jeffrey, Alex 186 Jütersonke, Oliver 198 Kakuma, Ritsuko 7, 164, 167–8 Kaladi (westerners) 78 Kammen, Douglas 1, 4–5, 57, 132 Karl, Terry Lynn 18 Keane, W. 157, 218, 221 Kent, Lia 8, 189 kestaun veteranus, veteran’s affairs 189–91 KHUNTO (Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan) 3, 47 Kingsbury, Damien 21, 35, 50 Kitan oil field 87 Kmanek Haburas Unidade Nasional Timor Oan (KHUNTO) 83, 3, 47 Kmanek Oan Rai Klaran (KORK) 54, 198 Kore Metan ceremonies 79 KORK (Kmanek Oan Rai Klaran) 54, 198 Lafaek crocodile 266 Larke, Benjamin 7, 166 Law 5/2004 62 Leach, Michael 5, 29, 37, 50, 76, 187 legitimacy, elections 43 Leininger, Julia 20–1 Lemay-Hébert, Nicholas 20 Liberal Democracy Index 18 Limongi, Fernando 18 Linz, Juan J. 20 Lisan 61–2, 67 Lisbon Revolution 326n7 Lobato, Nicolau 79 Lobato, Rogerio 51 Loch, Alexander 9, 63, 66, 164 loyalty, MAGs (martial arts groups) 207–8 Lu Olo 25 lulik 50, 62, 67, 74, 82, 155, 166, 177, 205, 227, 246, 259, 260, 263, 266 rai lulik 62, 177 uma lulik 66, 67, 70n17, 82, 166, 171n10, 178, 217, 259, 263, 264, 266, 268

McEwen, Cheryl 186 McIntosh, Gordon 81 macroeconomics 90 McWilliam, Andrew 28, 152, 158, 164, 166, 250–2 Madeira, Maria 257, 261, 267–8 Madeira Kiss 258 Magno, José da Costa 62 MAGs (martial arts groups) 8, 197–9; critical voices 199–201; hierarchical structure 202–3; loyalty 206–7; philosophy 203–6; social networks 203–6; values 203–6 malnutrition 103 mane ho feto kompleta malu 226–7; cosmology of gender 227; future 235–6; gendered effects of Indonesian occupation 230–1; gendered effects of Portuguese colonial culture 229–30; gendered violence 234; militarized legacy 232–4; political organisation 227–8; Filmena Reis 232; social organisation 228–9 Manufahi War 74–5 maritime delimitation between Indonesia 295–8 maritime delimitation with Australia 294–5 maritime jurisdiction 288 marriage practices 213–19, 223; expenses 219–21; gift-functions 217; gift and commodity exchanges 221–2, 223–4n1 martial arts, history 200–1 martial arts groups (MAGs). see MAGs (martial arts groups) Martins, Vasco 186 matan dook 171n11 matrilenal groups 236n1 Mayall, James 21 MDG (Millennium Development Goals) 153–4 Meitzner Yoder, Laura S. 111 Mendes, N. Canas 35 mental healthcare 162–3; customary and religious healers and healing practices 166–8; health-seeking behaviours 164–6; integrated, accessible and cultural competent 168–70; mental illness 165; services 163–4 migration to United Kingdom 136–45 militarized legacy, gender relations 232–4 Millennium Development Goals (MDG) 7, 153–4 miltary payments, allocation 40 MOI (Ministry of Infrastructure) 150 Morlino, Leonardo 19 mortuary rituals 245–6 Moruk, Mauk 44n14 Mother’s Purse programme 127–8

352

Index Movimentu Kultura 10, 256–7, 268–9; foundations 257–62; modern influence 262–4; nation building 257–8 MSS (Ministry of Social Solidarity) 150 Mulia, displacement and resettlement 176–8 multiparty democracy, nations-of-intent 77–9 Myat Thu, Pyone 7–8, 155 Myrttinen, Henri 187, 199 National Congress of the Timorese Reconstruction (CNRT) 2 National Council for Maubere Resistance (CNRM) 76–7 National Council of Timorese Resistance 2 National Petroleum and Minerals Authority (ANPM) 96 national poverty line 103 National Strategic Development Plan 89 nationalism 72–3; distinctive character 80–2; future 82–3 nations-of-intent: competing 75–7; multiparty democracy 77–9 Neves, Angelino ‘Gelly’ 257, 264–8 Neves, Guteriano 53, 56, 58 Nevins, Joseph 20 Niner, Sara 9 ‘No State, no Rechtsstaat, no Democracy’ 20 non-oil exports 101 non-renewable wealth, exhaustion 89–96 NTT (Nusa Tenggara Timur) 332–6 Nye, Joseph S. 314 Nygaard-Christensen, Maj 5, 47–8, 57 O’Connor, Sue 10 Oecussi as a Special Economic Zone (ZEESM) 2, 6, 40, 112–21 oikopolitics 149–58 oil and gas prices 88 Oliveira, Nuno 10, 21 One Belt, One Road policy 321–2 OPMT (Organização Popular de Mulher Timor) 76 origin narratives 242–5 Ortuoste, Maria 11 overseas migration from China 315–18 Palmer, Lisa 164–7, 252 Parada, Ino 257 Parliamentary Majority Alliance 2, 78 Partido Democrático (PD) 25, 48 Partido Libertasaun Popular (PLP) 3 Partido Povo Timor 42 Partidu Libertasaun Popular (PLP) 47 party ID cards 77 Pasukan Pejuang Integrasi (PPI) 333 paths to infinity 250–2

Paulino, Vicente 253 Pawelz, Janina 7–8 PD (Partido Democrático) 25, 48 peacekeeping costs 36–41 Pensaun Idozas 44n11 pension schemes, veteran’s affairs 187–9 Persaudaraan Setia Hati Terate (PSHT) 198 petroleum, exploration 94–6 Petroleum Fund 5, 12, 87–8, 93; Estimated Sustainable Income benchmark for withdrawals 38; historic and planned withdrawals 92; revenue sources 93–4 petroleum revenue flow 92 philosophy, MAGs (martial arts groups) 203–6 Pierce, C. 218 PLP (Partido Libertasaun Popular) 3, 47 Población, Alonso 219–20 political diplomacy for unification, China 320–1 political organisation, gender relations 227–8 political parties 37; integrating mainstream 337–8 politicization, public transfers 130–1 Polity IV 18 Popular Council for the Defense of the Democratic Republic of East Timor 42 Portuguese colonialism 1; gendered effects 229–30 POT (Persehatian Orang Timor) 340–1 poverty alleviation 127–8 PPI (Pasukan Pejuang Integrasi) 333 PRADET (Psychosocial Recovery and Development in East Timor) 170n4 previous maritime jurisdiction 289–92 Protection for Women 264–8 Przeworski, Adam 18 PSHT (Persaudaraan Setia Hati Terate) 198 Psychosocial Recovery and Development in East Timor (PRADET) 170n4 public consultations and draft laws, special enclave 114–16 public diplomacy 325n2; China 318–19 public transfers schemes 126–33 RAEOA (Special Administrative Region of Oecusse-Ambeno) 110 Ramos-Horta, José 2, 12, 18, 25, 27, 30, 32n4, 37, 38, 41–2, 48–9, 304–8 Rees, E. 114–15 referendum on independence in 1999 1 regional relations 10–11 Reilly, Benjamin 24 Reinado, Alfredo 38; assassination 2 Reis, Filmena 231 religious healers, mental healthcare 166–8 remittances 136–145

353

Index Reparations Law 132 resistance identity, reformulation 79–80 resource curse 88–9, 96 resource revenues 125 Rodger, J. 164–6 Ruak, Taur Matan 4, 25, 31, 32n4, 41, 82–3, 158 ruling strategy, Xanana Gusmão 35–43 Rustow, Dankwart 19 Sakti, V.K. 165 Saldanha, João 23 Salumata, Regio da Cruz 116 Sana Lulik 260 Santa Cruz 267 Santa Cruz massacre of 1991 77 Santiso, Javier 19 Santos, Abel Boavida dos 62–4 Sarmento, D.R. 169 Schedler, Andreas 24 Scheiner, Charlie 6, 12 Schmitter, Philippe 18–19 Schofield, Clive 11 Schuaib survey on migration to United Kingdom 138–41 Secrecy: The Key of Independence 231 Secretariado Técnico dos Assuntos Eleitorais (STAE) 24 sectoral contributions, GDP (gross domestic product) 101 security imperatives, veteran’s affairs 186–7 SEZ (Special Economic Zone) 110 Shamsul, A.B. 76, 81 Sharp, Paul 325n2 Siapno, Jacqueline 27 Siarnoff, Alan 26 da Silva, Dom Alberto Ricardo 67–8 Silva, Kelly 9, 12, 62–4, 216, 218 Simonsen, Sven Gunnar 27, 35 Simpang Tiga, displacement and resettlement 176–8 Singapore Houses 55 small industry development 104 Smith, Anthony L. 24, 28 Soares, Mica Barreto 11 Social Market Zone 52 social networks, MAGs (martial arts groups) 203–6 social organization, gender relations 228–9 Sousa, Lucio 66–7, 243 Special Administrative Region of OecusseAmbeno (RAEOA) 110 Special Economic Zone of Social Market Economy (ZEESM). see ZEESM (Special Economic Zone of Social Market Economy)

Special Regime for the Ownership of Immovable Property 182 Special Regime for the Ownership of Immovable Property 8 Special Subsistance Pension 126 Special Zone of Social Market Economy of Oecusse and Atauro 30 stability 43 STAE (Secretariado Técnico dos Assuntos Eleitorais) 24 state expenditures 96–100 state revenue sources 93 Steel, Z. 164, 166 Strategic Development Plan (2011) 125, 277–8 substainability, public transfers 129–30 supernatural causes, mental illness 165 SWOT (Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats) 19–20 symbols, marriage practices 213–19 syncretism 61 Tasi Mane Petroleum Corridor 40 Tasi Mane petroleum infrastructure 6 territorial and maritime extent 286–7 Tetun lingua franca 9 Thierry, Augustin 27 Timor Gap 289–92 Timor Oan 261 Timor Ritual Areas 265 Timor Tengah Selatan (TTS) 332–6 Timor Tengah Utara (TTU) 332–6 Timorese Popular Democratic Association 76 Tønnesson, S. 73, 80 tourism 105 Traube, Elizabeth 57, 81 Tusinski, Gabriel 7 Uma Lima Kada Aldeia 153 Uma Singapore 55 UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) 3 UN Development Programme (UNDP) 306 UN Kingdom of of Timore-Leste 21–3 União Democrática Timorense (UDT) 17, 76 United Front of the People’s Republic of China 326n14 United Heart of Timorese 340–1 valorization, veteran’s affairs 186–7 values, MAGs (martial arts groups) 203–6 Van der Auweraert, Peter 150 Veiga, Leonor 10 veteran identity, negotiations 191–2 veteran payments, allocation 40 veteran’s affairs 185–6; kestaun veteranus 189–91; negotiating veteran identity 191–2;

354

Index pension schemes 187–9; security imperatives 186–7; valorization 186–7 veterans question 189–91 Viegas, Susana 28, 60–1 Vieira de Mello, Sérgio 21–2 violence and crime 90

Widodo, Joko 310 withdrawals, Petroleum Fund 92 Without Place to Go 267 Written with Blood 231

Wale, Kim 186, 192 Wallis, Joanne 6, 29, 132, 155, 189 Wasinondh, Kitti 305 West Timor, East Timorese 332–6

ZEESM (Special Economic Zone of Social Market Economy) 2, 6, 79, 110, 120; necessity 111–12; successive attempts to implementation 112–18 Zwi, A.B. 162, 164, 166

Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang 307

355